O, That This Too, Too Solid Flesh Would Melt

O All You Host Of Heaven! O Earth! What Else?

O, What A Rogue And Peasant Slave Am I!

I Will Tell You Why; So Shall My Anticipation Prevent Your Discovery

To Be Or Not To Be: That Is The Question

What Is He Whose Grief Bears Such Emphasis?

Sonnet XVIII

Sonnet XXIX

Sonnet XXX

Sonnet XXXIII