Music, Moody Food Of Us That Trade

Time Doth Transfix The Flourish Set On Youth And Delves The Parallels In Beauty's Brow.

So Loving To My Mother, That He Might Not Beteem The Winds Of Heaven, Visit Her Face' Too Roughly.

Thou And I Are Too Wise To Woo Peaceably.

Beware The Ides Of March.

O Love, Be Moderate, Allay Thy Ecstasy, In Measure Rain Thy Joy, Scant This Excess!