You Kiss By Th' Book.

Then Let Thy Love Be Younger Than Thyself, Or Thy Affection Cannot Hold The Bent.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here.

It's Easy For Someone To Joke About Scars If They've Never Been Cut.

How Easy It Is For The Proper-false In Woman's Waxen Hearts To Set Their Forms!