Gentle And Low, An Excellent Thing In

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.

Things Past Redress Are Now With Me Past Care

O Jest Unseen, Inscrutable, Invisible, As A Nose On A Man's Face, Or A Weathercock On A Steeple.