A Woman's Fitness Comes By Fits.

Why, Thou Owest God A Death.

To Whom God Will, There Be The Victory.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triump Die, Like Fire And Powder Which, As They Kiss, Consume

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks