Thou Mak'st Me Merry: I Am Full

A Young Man Married Is A Man That's Marred.

I Have Ventured, Like Little Wanton Boys That Swim On Bladders, This Many Summers In A Sea Of Glory, But Far Beyond My Depth. My High-blown Pride At Length Broke Under Me, And Now Has Left Me, Weary And Old With Service, To The Mercy Of A Rude Stream That Must For Ever Hide Me.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herald Of Joy: I Were But Little Happy, If I Could Say How Much. Lady, As You Are Mine, I Am Yours: I Give Away Myself For You And Dote Upon The Exchange.

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

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.