Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting;

One Sin, I Know, Another Doth Provoke. Murder's As Near To Lust As Flame To Smoke.

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

Nothing Routs Us But The Villainy Of Our Fears.

I Feel Within Me A Peace Above All Earthly Dignities, A Still And Quiet Conscience.

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.