A Good Poet's Made As Well As

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

Doing, A Filthy Pleasure Is, And Short; And Done, We Straight Repent Us Of The Sport: Let Us Not Rush Blindly On Unto It, Like Lustful Beasts, That Only Know To Do It: For Lust Will Languish, And That Heat Decay, But Thus, Thus, Keeping Endless Holy-.

Many Might Go To Heaven With Half The Labour They Go To Hell, If They Would Venture Their Industry The Right Way.

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome

Well, As He Brews, So Shall He Drink.