Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes

Good Is Not Good, Unless A Thousand It Possess, But Doth Waste With Greediness.

As Virtuous Men Pass Mildly Away, And Whisper To Their Souls To Go, Whilst Some Of Their Sad Friends Do Say, The Breath Goes Now, And Some Say No.

Come Live With Me, And Be My Love, And We Will Some New Pleasures Prove Of Golden Sands, And Crystal Brooks, With Silken Lines, And Silver Hooks.

As He That Fears God Fears Nothing Else, So He That Sees God Sees Everything Else.

How Many Times Go We To Comedies, To Masques, To Places Of Great And Noble Resort, Nay Even To Church Only To See The Company.