Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

I Will Not Be Sworn But Love May Transform Me To An Oyster

Every Inordinate Cup Is Unbless'd, And The Ingredient Is A Devil.

...vaulted With Such Ease Into His Seat, As If An Angel Dropp'd Down From The Clouds, To Turn And Wind A Fiery Pegasus, And Witch The World With Noble Horsemanship.