O, The Blood More Stirs To Rouse

On Pain Of Death, No Person Be So Bold.

What Though Care Killed A Cat, Thou Hast Mettle Enough In Thee To Kill Care.

Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

Is It Possible He Should Know What He Is, And Be That He Is?

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.