What A Deformed Thief This Fashion Is.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come.

At This Hour Lie At My Mercy All Mine Enemies.

Rest You Fair, Good Signior; Your Worship Was The Last Man In Our Mouths.

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends.