The Pleasing Punishment That Women Bear.

What, No More Ceremony? See, My Women! Against The Blown Rose May They Stop Their Nose That Kneel'd Unto The Buds.

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

Now I Am Past All Comforts Here, But Prayer.

Conceal Me What I Am, And Be My Aid For Such Disguise As Haply Shall Become The Form Of My Intent.

Good Name In Man And Woman, Dear My Lord, Is The Immediate Jewel Of Their Souls: Who Steals My Purse Steals Trash; ’tis Something, Nothing; ’twas Mine, ’tis His, And Has Been Slave To Thousands; But He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Not Enriches Him, And Makes Me Poor Indeed.