An Envious Fever Of Pale

Every Fair From Fair Sometime Declines

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say! One: Two: Why, Then 'tis Time To Do't. Hell Is Murky!

A Young Woman In Love Always Looks Like Patience On A Monument Smiling At Grief