For Now They Kill Me With A

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

How Well He's Read, To Reason Against Reading!

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

I'll Have No Husband, If You Be Not He.