I Had Rather Be A

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.

At Christmas, I No More Desire A Rose.

To Offend And Judge Are Distinct Offices, And Of Opposed Natures.

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And I Am One