O World, How Apt The Poor Are

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat, Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This, That To The Use Of Actions Fair And Good He Likewise Gives A Frock Or Livery That Aptly Is Put On. Refrain Tonight, And That Shall Lend A Kind Of Easiness To The Next Abstinence; The Next More Easy; For Use Almost Can Change The Stamp Of Nature.

Truly, I Would Not Hang A Dog By My Will, Much More A Man Who Hath Any Honesty In Him.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

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. . . .

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?