We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

O Prosperina, For The Flowers Now That, Frighted, Thou Let'st Fall From Dis's Wagon; Daffodils, That Come Before The Swallow Dares, And Take The Winds Of March With Beauty; Violets Dim, But Sweeter Than The Lids Of Juno's Eyes Or Cytherea's Breath; Pale Primroses, That Die Unmarried, Ere They Can Behold Bright Phoebus In His Strength--a Malady Most Incident To Maids; Bold Oxlips And The Crown Imperial; Lilies Of All Kinds, The Flower-de-luce Being One.

No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My Account With All My Imperfections On My Head.

Ten Kisses Short As One, One Long As Twenty.

Who Is It Can Read A Woman?