Were All The Letters Sun,

Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Ey'd, Such Seems Your Beauty Still.

Thou Art Thy Mother's Glass, And She In Thee Calls Back The Lovely April Of Her Prime...

O Powerful Love, That In Some Respects Makes A Beast A Man, In Some Other, A Man A Beast.

Crowns Have Their Compass-length Of Days Their Date- Triumphs Their Tomb-felicity, Her Fate- Of Nought But Earth Can Earth Make Us Partaker, But Knowledge Makes A King Most Like His Maker.