I Observe The Physician With The Same

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

I Call Not That Virginity A Virtue, Which Resideth Onely In The Bodies Integrity; Much Less If It Be With A Purpose Of Perpetually Keeping It: For Then It Is A Most Inhumane Vice. - But I Call That Virginity A Virtue Which Is Willing And Desirous To Yield It Self Upon Honest And Lawfull Terms, When Just Reason Requireth; And Until Then, Is Kept With A Modest Chastity Of Body And Mind.

Love's Mysteries In Souls Do Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Book.

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.