Promising Is The Very Air O' The

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Slanders, Sir, For The Satirical Rogue Says Here That Old Men Have Grey Beards, That Their Faces Are Wrinkled, Their Eyes Purging Think Amber And Plum-tree Gum, And That They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit, Together With Most Weak Hams.

I Will Instruct My Sorrows To Be Proud; For Grief Is Proud, And Makes His Owner Stoop.

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

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror