In Small Proportions We Just Beauties See;

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

Art Hath An Enemy Call'd Ignorance .

[the Play] Is Like To Be A Very Conceited Scurvy One, In Plain English.

Come, My Celia, Let Us Prove, While We Can, The Sports Of Love, Time Will Not Be Ours For Ever, He, At Length, Our Good Will Sever; Spend Not Then His Gifts In Vain: Suns That Set May Rise Again; But If Once We Lose This Light, 'tis With Us Perpetual Night. Why Should We Defer Our Joys? Fame And Rumour Are But Toys.

I Now Think, Love Is Rather Deaf, Than Blind, For Else It Could Not Be, That She, Whom I Adore So Much, Should So Slight Me, And Cast My Love Behind.