A Plague On Both Your Houses.

I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon, For Too Much Loving You

And This, Our Life, Exempt From Public Haunt, Finds Tongues In Trees, Books In The Running Brooks, Sermons In Stones, And Good In Everything.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.