Virtue Is The Fount Whence Honour Springs.

I Count Religion But A Childish Toy, And Hold There Is No Sin But Ignorance.

My Men Like Satyrs Grazing On The Lawns, / Shall With Their Goat-feet Dance An Antic Hay.

Fornication: But That Was In Another Country; And Besides, The Wench Is Dead.

Our Swords Shall Play The Orators For Us.

Who Ever Loved That Loved Not At First Sight?