Woah Is Me To Have Seen What

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.

Feed On Her Damask Cheek: She Pined In Thought, And With A Green And Yellow Melancholy She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief

If't Be Summer News, Smile To't Before; If Winterly, Thou Need'st But Keep That Count'nance Still.

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.