Tis The Times' Plague, When

I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could Not, With All Their Quantity Of Love, Make Up My Sum.

Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping Winter Treads.

Why, What Should Be The Fear? I Do Not Set My Life At A Pin's Fee.

The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

Happy Thou Art Not; For What Thou Hast Not, Still Thou Strivest To Get; And What Thou Hast, Forgettest.