I Must Be Gone And Live, Or

The Rose Looks Fair, But Fairer We It Deem For That Sweet Odour Which Doth In It Live.

Season Your Admiration For A While.

Grief Makes One Hour Ten.

Men's Eyes Were Made To Look, And Let Them Gaze. I Will Not Budge For No Man's Pleasure.

Now, Neighbor Confines, Purge You Of Your Scum! Have You A Ruffian That Will Swear, Drink, Dance, Revel The Night, Rob, Murder, And Commit The Oldest Sins The Newest Kind Of Ways?