Evermore Thanks, The Exchequer Of The Poor

For What I Will, I Will, And There An End.

Now The Melancholy Of God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Doublet Of Changable Taffata, For Thy Mind Is A Very Opal. I Would Have Men Of Such Constancy Put To Sea, That Their Business Might Be Everything, And Their Intent Everywhere, For That's It, That Always Makes A Good Voyage Of Nothing.

A Very Honest Woman But Something Given To Lie

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

Whatever Praises Itself But In The Deed, Devours The Deed In The Praise.