What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.

They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them

And I will make it felony to drink small beer.

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

I have no way and therefore want no eyes I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities.