A Maiden Hath No Tongue--but Thought.

We Cannot All Be Masters.

Shorten My Days Thou Canst With Sullen Sorrow, And Pluck Nights From Me, But Not Lend A Morrow; Thou Canst Help Time To Furrow Me With Age, But Stop No Wrinkle In His Pilgrimage.

Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster, Which I With Sword Will Open.

We Must Follow, Not Force Providence.

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine. I Have Not That Alacrity Of Spirit Nor Cheer Of Mind That I Was Wont To Have.