I Dote On His Very Absence.

Because I Cannot Flatter And Look Fair, Smile In Men's Faces, Smooth, Deceive, And Cog, Duck With French Nods And Apish Courtesy, I Must Be Held A Rancorous Enemy.

Ere Yet The Salt Of Most Unrighteous Tears Had Left The Flushing Of Her Gallèd Eyes, She Married. O, Most Wicked Speed, To Post With Such Dexterity To Incestuous Sheets!

I Think The Devil Will Not Have Me Damned, Lest The Oil That's In Me Should Set Hell On Fire.

What To Ourselves In Passion We Propose, The Passion Ending, Doth The Purpose Lose.

It Provokes The Desire, But It Takes Away The Performance