Let My Muse Fail Of Thy Former

Feed Him Ye Must, Whose Food Fills You. And That This Pleasure Is Like Raine, Not Sent Ye For To Drowne Your Paine, But For To Make It Spring Againe.

Tears Are The Noble Language Of The Eye.

Show Me Thy Feet, Show Me Thy Legs, Thy Thighs Show Me Those Fleshy Principalities; Show Me That Hill Where Smiling Love Doth Sit, Having A Living Fountain Under It; Show Me Thy Waist, Then Let Me There Withal, By The Ascension Of Thy Lawn, See All.

The Person Lives Twice Who Lives The First Life Well

In Prayer The Lips Ne'er Act The Winning Part, Without The Sweet Concurrence Of The Heart.