O, Spirit Of Love, How Quick And

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

But Jealous Souls Will Not Be Answered So, They Are Not Ever Jealous For The Cause, But Jealous For They're Jealous. 'tis A Monster Begot Upon Itself, Born On Itself.

Your Face Is A Book, Where Men May Read Strange Matters.

Let Those That Play Your Clowns Speak No More Than Is Set Down For Them.

Then Know, That I Have Little Wealth To Lose. A Man I Am, Crossed With Adversity; My Riches Are These Poor Habiliments, Of Which If You Should Here Disfurnish Me, You Take The Sum And Substance That I Have.