Beauty Itself Doth Of Itself Persuade The

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe

No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My Account With All My Imperfections On My Head.

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

The Devil Hath Power To Assume A Pleasing Shape.