I Have Heard Of Some

If Chance Will Have Me King, Why, Chance May Crown Me.

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

O For A Horse With Wings!

Give Every Man Thine Ear, But Few Thy Voice; Take Each Man's Censure, But Reserve Thy Judgment.