Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With

Love Is Blind, It Stops Lovers Seeing The Silly Things They Do.

You Cannot Make Gross Sins Look Clear: To Revenge Is No Valour, But To Bear.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.

For Now I Stand As One Upon A Rock Environed With A Wilderness Of Sea, Who Marks The Waxing Tide Grow Wave By Wave, Expecting Ever When Some Envious Surge Will In His Brinish Bowels Swallow Him.

Love Is Merely A Madness; And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do; And The Reason Why They Are Not So Punish'd And Cured Is That The Lunacy Is So Ordinary That The Whippers Are In Love Too.