Summer's Lease Hath All Too Short A

There Is Throats To Be Cut, And Works To Be Done.

For To Define True Madness, What Is't But To Be Nothing Else But Mad?

Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones.

Let There Be Gall Enough In Thy Ink, Though Thou Write With A Goose-pen, No Matter.

Take No Repulse, Whatever She Doth Say; For 'get You Gone,' She Doth Not Mean 'away.' Flatter And Praise, Commend, Extol Their Graces; Though Ne'er So Black, Say They Have Angels' Faces