If She Be Not Honest, Chaste, And

You Lack The Season Of All Natures, Sleep.

Many Can Brook The Weather That Love Not The Wind.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.

Women Are As Roses, Whose Fair Flower, Being Once Displayed, Doth Fall That Very Hour.

The Gloomy Shade Of Death.