I Thought My Heart Had Been Wounded

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

Upon Thy Cheek I Lay This Zealous Kiss, As Seal To The Indenture Of My Love.

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.

All Things That Are, Are With More Spirit Chased Than Enjoyed.

No, I Will Be The Pattern Of All Patience; I Will Say Nothing.