Of One That Lov'd Not Wisely But

Well, If Fortune Be A Woman, She's A Good Wench For This Gear.

Sweet Love! Sweet Lines! Sweet Life! Here Is Her Hand, The Agent Of Her Heart; Here Is Her Oath For Love, Her Honour's Pawn

Mean And Mighty, Rotting Together, Have One Dust.

In Thy Youth Wast As True A Lover, As Ever Sighed Upon A Midnight Pillow

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!