Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full

She Cannot Love, Nor Take No Shape Nor Project Or Affection, She Is So Self-endeared

When A Man's Verses Cannot Be Understood, Nor A Man's Good Wit Seconded With The Forward Child Understanding, It Strikes A Man More Dead Than A Great Reckoning In A Little Room. Truly, I Would The Gods Had Made Thee Poetical.

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

Villains, Vipers, Damn'd Without Redemption; Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man; Snakes In My Heart-blood Warm'd, That Sing My Heart; Three Judases, Each One Thrice Worse Than Judas.

Love Is The Greatest Of Dreams, Yet The Worst Of Nightmares.