Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

That Man That Hath A Tongue, I Say Is No Man, If With His Tongue He Cannot Win A Woman.

The Caterpillars Of The Commonwealth, Which I Have Sworn To Weed And Pluck Away.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triump Die, Like Fire And Powder Which, As They Kiss, Consume

For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lillies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

In Religion, What Damned Error But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It, And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament?