Nothing Can Come Of Nothing.

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror