Tis No Sin For A Man To

Then Will I Raise Aloft The Milk-white Rose. For Whose Sweet Smell The Air Shall Be Perfumed.

She's Good, Being Gone.

Chewing The Food Of Sweet And Bitter Fancy.

That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave, I Should In Thought Control Your Times Of Pleasure, Or At Your Hand Th' Account Of Hours To Crave, Being Your Vassal Bound To Stay Your Leisure.

So Our Virtues Lie In The Interpretation Of The Time