The Quality Of Nothing Hath

For Love, Thou Know'st, Is Full Of Jealousy

Daffodils, That Come Before The Swallow Dares, And Take The Winds Of March With Beauty.

This Feather Stirs; She Lives! If It Be So, It Is A Chance Which Does Redeem All Sorrows That Ever I Have Felt.

They Told Me I Was Everything. 'tis A Lie, I Am Not Ague-proof.

Whatever Praises Itself But In The Deed, Devours The Deed In The Praise.