All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.

I Wish My Horse Had The Speed Of Your Tongue.

Thou Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Lov'd, Despis'd! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon.

My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun

Ay, But Hearken, Sir; Though The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air, I Am One That Am Nourished By My Victuals, And Would Fain Have Meat.