So Full Of Shapes Is

And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye, Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company.

My Heart Suspects More Than Mine Eye Can See.

This Passion, And The Death Of A Dear Friend, Would Go Near To Make A Man Look Sad.

We See Which Way The Stream Of Time Doth Run.

Rumor Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures.