The Hand That Hath Made You Fair

So Sweet Was Ne'er So Fatal. I Must Weep. But They Are Creul Tears. This Sorrow's Heavenly; It Strikes Where It Doth Love.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Or Anger

I Will Not Trust You, I, Nor Longer Stay In Your Curst Company. Your Hands Than Mine Are Quicker For A Fray, My Legs Are Longer Though, To Run Away.

A Man In All The World's New Fashion Planted, That Hath A Mint Of Phrases In His Brain.