For They Are Yet Ear-kissing Arguments.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.

I Love You More Than Word Can Wield The Matter, Dearer Than Eye-sight, Space And Liberty

Lord, I Could Not Endure A Husband With A Beard On His Face! I Had Rather Lie In The Woolen.

Tears Water Our Growth.

All The Contagion Of The South Light On You, You Shames Of Rome! You Herd Of--boils And Plagues Plaster You O'er; That You May Be Abhorr'd Further Than Seen, And One Infect Another Against The Wind A Mile!