Venus Smiles Not In A House Of

Divers Philosophers Hold That The Lips Is Parcel Of The Mouth.

The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe Grapes.

Do You Not Know I Am A Woman? When I Think, I Must Speak.

They Met So Near With Their Lips That Their Breaths Embraced Together.

For Now I Stand As One Upon A Rock Environed With A Wilderness Of Sea, Who Marks The Waxing Tide Grow Wave By Wave, Expecting Ever When Some Envious Surge Will In His Brinish Bowels Swallow Him.