You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of

The Devil Hath Power To Assume A Pleasing Shape.

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

I Would Fain Die A Dry Death.

Make Passionate My Sense Of Hearing.

What A Pretty Thing Man Is When He Goes In His Doublet And Hose And Leaves Off His Wit!