So Will I Turn Her Virtue Into

Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!

You Kiss By Th' Book.

For Naught So Vile That On The Earth Doth Live But To The Earth Some Special Good Doth Give.

Although The Last, Not Least.

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me? Young Son, It Argues A Distemper'd Head So Soon To Bid Good Morrow To Thy Bed: Care Keeps His Watch In Every Old Man's Eye, And Where Care Lodges, Sleep Will Never Lie; But Where Unbruised Youth With Unstuff'd Brain Doth Couch His Limbs, There Golden Sleep Doth Reign.