Love Reasons Without Reason.

How Poor Are They That Have Have Not Patients.

Tis Gold Which Buys Admittance--oft It Doth--yea, And Makes Diana's Rangers False Themselves, Yield Up This Deer To Th' Stand O' Th' Stealer: And 'tis Gold Which Makes The True Man Kill'd And Saves The Thief, Nay, Sometimes Hangs Both Thief And True Man.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

Beshrew The Heart That Makes My Heart To Groan.

If We Are True To Ourselves, We Can Not Be False To Anyone.