The Wounds Invisible That Love's

Fair, Kind, And True, Have Often Lived Alone.

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me.

Gives Not The Hawthorn Bush A Sweeter Shade To Shepherds, Looking On Their Silly Sheep, Than Doth A Rich Embroider'd Canopy To Kings That Fear Their Subjects Treachery?

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.

There's Never A Villain Dwelling In All Denmark But He's An Arrant Knave.