Hold, Or Cut Bowstrings.

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

Ay; Beauty's Princely Majesty Is Such, Confounds The Tongue And Makes The Senses Rough.

It Is As Easy To Count Atomies As To Resolve The Propositions Of A Lover.

I Hourly Learn A Doctrine Of Obedience.

I Have Lov'd Her Ever Since I Saw Her; And Still I See Her Beautiful