Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou Art As Glorious To This Night, Being O'er My Head As Is A Winged Messenger Of Heaven

When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth, I Do Believe Her, Though I Know She Lies.

I Will Kill Thee A Hundred And Fifty Ways.

The Proverb Is Something Musty.

I Am A True Laborer: I Earn That I Eat, Get That I Wear, Owe No Man Hate, Envy No Man's Happiness, Glad Of Other Men's Good, Content With My Harm.