Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.

Nature's Lay Idiot, I Taught Thee To Love.

I Do Not Love A Man, Except I Hate His Vices, Because Those Vices Are The Enemies, And The Destruction Of That Friend Whom I Love.

I Shall Die Reading; Since My Book And A Grave Are So Near.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.