At Christmas I No More Desire A

Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.

In The Night, Imagining Some Fear, How Easy Is A Bush Supposed A Bear!

I Have Heard Of Your Paintings Too, Well Enough; God Has Given You One Face, And You Make Yourselves Another: You Jig, You Amble, And You Lisp, And Nick-name God's Creatures, And Make Your Wantonness Your Ignorance. Go To, I'll No More On't; It Hath Made Me Mad.

Can It Be That Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness? Having Waste Ground Enough, Shall We Desire To Raze The Sanctuary And Pitch Our Evils There?

Nay, We Must Think Men Are Not Gods, Nor Of Them Look For Such Observancy As Fits The Bridal.