Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With

Let Me Have War, Say I; It Exceeds Peace As Far As Day Does Night; It's Spritely, Waking, Audible, And Full Of Vent.

This Man, Lady, Hath Robb'd Many Beasts Of Their Particular Additions: He Is As Valiant As A Lion, Churlish As The Bear, Slow As The Elephant-a Man Into Whom Nature Hath So Crowded Humours That His Valour Is Crush'd Into Folly, His Folly Sauced With Discretion.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

No .... Holy Father, Throw Away That Thought. Believe Not That The Dribbling Dart Of Love Can Pierce A Complete Bosom.

Nymph, In Thy Orisons Be All My Sins Remembered!