He Was Not So Much Brain As

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.

He Is Well Paid That Is Well Satisfied.

I Have More Care To Stay Than Will To Go.

Thou Art A Soul In Bliss; But I Am Bound Upon A Wheel Of Fire; That Mine Own Tears Do Scald Like Molten Lead.

Unless The Old Adage Must Be Verified, That Beggars Mounted, Run Their Horse To Death.