Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.

For Which Of My Bad Parts Didst Thou First Fall In Love With Me?

How Quickly Nature Falls Into Revolt When Gold Becomes Her Object! For This The Foolish Over-careful Fathers Have Broke Their Sleep With Thoughts, Their Brains With Care, Their Bones With Industry.

To You Your Father Should Be As A God; One That Composed Your Beauties, Yea, And One To Whom You Are But As A Form In Wax, By Him Imprinted, And Within His Power To Leave The Figure Or Disfigure It.

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

Foul Cankering Rust The Hidden Treasure Frets, But Gold That's Put To Use More Gold Begets.