A Very Scurvy Fellow.

He Makes A July's Day Short As December.

For My Part, If A Lie May Do Thee Grace, I'll Gild It With The Happiest Terms I Have.

Love Is A Smoke Raised With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purged, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vexed, A Sea Nourished With Loving Tears. What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet. *here’s What Love Is: A Smoke Made Out Of Lovers' Sighs. When The Smoke Clears, Love Is A Fire Burning In Your Lover’s Eyes. If You Frustrate Love, You Get An Ocean Made Out Of Lovers' Tears. What Else Is Love? It’s A Wise Form Of Madness. It’s A Sweet Lozenge That You Choke On.*

The Robbed That Smiles, Steals Something From The Thief.

We Cannot Conceive Of Matter Being Formed Of Nothing, Since Things Require A Seed To Start From... Therefore There Is Not Anything Which Returns To Nothing, But All Things Return Dissolved Into Their Elements.