O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can

We Are Not The First Who With Best Meaning Have Incurred The Worst

The Blood Weeps From My Heart When I Do Shape, In Forms Imaginary, Th' Unguided Days And Rotten Times That You Shall Look Upon When I Am Sleeping With My Ancestors.

I Understand Thy Kisses, And Thou Mine, And That's A Feeling Disputation.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

Yet Writers Say, As In The Sweetest Bud The Eating Canter Dwells, So Eating Love Inhabits In The Finest Wits Of All.