Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!

Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But The Finest Part Of Pure Love

Being Holiday, The Beggar's Shop Is Shut.

And Fearless Minds Climb Soonest Unto Crowns.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.