He's All My Exercise, My Mirth, My

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

Arise, Fair Sun, And Kill The Envious Moon, Who Is Already Sick And Pale With Grief That Thou, Her Maid, Art Far More Fair Than She. . . .

There's Villainous News Abroad.

He's All My Exercise, My Mirth, My Matter.

Enjoy'd No Sooner But Despised Straight, Past Reason Hunted, And No Sooner Had Past Reason Hated