Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

Women Are Angels, Wooing: Things Won Are Done; Joy's Soul Lies In The Doing: That She Beloved Knows Naught, That Knows Not This-- Men Prize The Thing Ungained More Than It Is.

Frame Your Mind To Mirth And Merriment Which Bars A Thousand Harms And Lengthens Life.

Her Virtues, Graced With External Gifts, Do Breed Love's Settled Passions In My Heart; And Like As Rigour Of Tempestuous Gusts Provokes The Mightiest Hulk Against The Tide, So Am I Driven By Breath Of Her Renown Either To Suffer Shipwreck Or Arrive Where I May Have Fruition Of Her Love.

Base Men Being In Love Have Then A Nobility In Their Natures More Than Is Native To Them.

Death Is My Son-in-law, Death Is My Heir.