So Full Of Shapes Is Fancy

This Rudeness Is A Sauce To His Good Wit, Which Gives Men Stomach To Digest His Words With Better Appetite.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

There Are No Tricks In Plain And Simple Faith.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad