Shine Out Fair Sun, Till I Have

Tempt Not A Desperate Man

Tis In My Memory Lock'd, And You Yourself Shall Keep The Key Of It.

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

In Me Thou See'st The Twilight Of Such Day As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By And By Black Night Doth Take Away Death's Second Self, That Seals Up All In Rest. -sonnet 73

Hal, If I Tell Thee A Lie, Spit In My Face, Call Me Horse.