Fie, Fie, How Frantically I Square My

If't Be Summer News, Smile To't Before; If Winterly, Thou Need'st But Keep That Count'nance Still.

The Venom Clamours Of A Jealous Woman Poison More Deadly Than A Mad Dog's Tooth.

Were Kisses All The Joys In Bed, One Woman Would Another Wed.

How Poor Are They That Have Have Not Patients.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror