And Worse I May Be Yet: The

Love Is My Sin, And Thy Dear Virtue Hate, Hate Of My Sin, Grounded On Sinful Loving.

Thus Did I Keep My Person Fresh And New, My Presence, Like A Robe Pontifical, Ne'er Seen But Wondered At, And So My State, Seldom But Sumptuous, Showed Like A Feast.

The Heavens Forbid But That Our Loves And Comforts Should Increase Even As Our Days Do Grow!

Sigh No More Ladies, Sigh No More, Men Were Deceivers Ever

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?