This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In

I, Measuring His Affections By My Own, Which Then Most Sought Where Most Might Not Be Found, Being One Too Many By My Weary Self, Pursued My Humor Not Pursuing His, And Gladly Shunned Who Gladly Fled From Me.

There Is A Law In Each Well-ordered Nation To Curb Those Raging Appetites That Are Most Disobedient And Refractory.

My Affection Hath An Unknown Bottom, Like The Bay Of Portugal.

Wolves And Bears, They Say, Casting Their Savagery Aside, Have Done Like Offices Of Pity.

If I Shall Be Condemned Upon Surmises, All Proofs Sleeping Else But What Your Jealousies Awake, I Tell You 'tis Rigor And Not Law.