For She Had Eyes And Chose Me.

Read O'er This And After, This, And Then To Breakfast With What Appetite You Have.

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

Time Shall Unfold What Plaited Cunning Hides: Who Cover Faults, At Last Shame Them Derides.

'tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile Esteemed, When Not To Be, Receives Reproach Of Being, And The Just Pleasure Lost, Which Is So Deemed, Not By Our Feeling, But By Others' Seeing.

I Have Pursued Her, As Love Hath Pursued Me