O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You

Till All Grace Be In One Woman, One Woman Shall Not Come In My Grace.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

I'll Speak In A Monstrous Little Voice.

I Think The Devil Will Not Have Me Damned, Lest The Oil That's In Me Should Set Hell On Fire.