Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is

I Kissed Thee Ere I Killed Thee. No Way But This, Killing Myself, To Die Upon A Kiss.

Then Know, That I Have Little Wealth To Lose. A Man I Am, Crossed With Adversity; My Riches Are These Poor Habiliments, Of Which If You Should Here Disfurnish Me, You Take The Sum And Substance That I Have.

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It Will Feed My Revenge.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.