Past And To Come, Seems Best; Things

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.

For There's No Motion That Tends To Vice In Man, But I Affirm It Is The Woman's Part.

Keep Thy Foot Out Of Brothels, Thy Hand Out Of Plackets, Thy Pen From Lender's Books, And Defy The Foul Fiend.

What Is The City But The People?

Hadst Thou No Poison Mixed, No Sharp-ground Knife, No Sudden Mean Of Death, Though Ne'er So Mean, But 'banished' To Kill Me--'banished'? O Friar, The Damned Use That Word In Hell; Howling Attends It! How Hast Thou The Heart, Being A Divine, A Ghostly Confessor, A Sin-absolver, And My Friend Professed, To Mangle Me With That Word 'banished'?