But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade.

O Heresy In Fair, Fit For These Days, A Giving Hand, Though Foul, Shall Have Fair Praise.

Alas, Their Love May Be Call'd Appetite. No Motion Of The Liver, But The Palate

All Love's Pleasure Shall Not Match Its Woe.

I Will Make A Star-chamber Matter Of It.

Confusion Now Hath Made His Masterpiece.