An Envious Fever Of Pale And Bloodless

And The More Pity That Great Folk Should Have Count'nance In This World To Drown Or Hang Themselves More Than Their Even-christen.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most? Ha! Not She: Nor Doth She Tempt: But It Is I That, Lying By The Violet In The Sun, Do As The Carrion Does, Not As The Flower, Corrupt With Virtuous Season.

Sweets Grown Common Lose Their Dear Delight.

He Hath Eaten Me Out Of House And Home.