For He Was Likely, Had He Been

I Dote On His Very Absence.

Lives Like A Drunken Sailor On A Mast, Ready With Every Nod To Tumble Down Into The Fatal Bowels Of The Deep.

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.

A Plague Of Sighing And Grief! It Blows A Man Up Like A Bladder.

Good Morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All In The Morn Betime, And I A Maid At Your Window, To Be Your Valentine.