That Which Ordinary Men Are Fit For,

Good Wine Needs No Bush.

Sweet Love! Sweet Lines! Sweet Life! Here Is Her Hand, The Agent Of Her Heart; Here Is Her Oath For Love, Her Honour's Pawn

Unnatural Deeds Do Breed Unnatural Troubles: Infected Minds To Their Deaf Pillows Will Discharge Their Secrets.

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

Prosperity's The Very Bond Of Love, Whose Fresh Complexion And Whose Heart Together Affliction Alters.