Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale

Delivers In Such Apt And Gracious Words That Aged Ears Play Truant At His Tales; And Younger Hearings Are Quite Ravished; So Sweet And Voluble Is His Discourse.

There's Nothing In This World Can Make Me Joy.

Yea From The Table Of My Memory I'll Wipe Away All Trivial Fond Records.

Oh, She Doth Teach The Torches To Burn Bright! It Seems She Hangs Upon The Cheek Of Night Like A Rich Jewel In An Ethiope’s Ear, Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth Too Dear. So Shows A Snowy Dove Trooping With Crows As Yonder Lady O'er Her Fellows Shows. The Measure Done, I’ll Watch Her Place Of Stand, And, Touching Hers, Make Blessèd My Rude Hand. Did My Heart Love Till Now? Forswear It, Sight! For I Ne'er Saw True Beauty Till This Night.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.