Th Abuse Of Greatness Is

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

Let Not Our Babbling Dreams Affright Our Souls; Conscience Is But A Work That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe: Our Strong Arms Be Our Conscience, Swords Our Law!

Women's Weapons, Water-drops.

She Moves Me Not, Or Not Removes At Least Affection's Edge In Me.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.