Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

All Places Shall Be Hell That Are Not Heaven.

Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I Am Asham'd, However That I Seem, To Think A Word Of Such Simple Sound, Of Such Great Matter Should Be Made The Ground.

Time Doth Run With Calm And Silent Foot, Shortening My Days And Thread Of Vital Life.

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.