Were All The Letters Sun, I Could

We Must Every One Be A Man Of His Own Fancy.

Chewing The Food Of Sweet And Bitter Fancy.

But Indeed An Old Religious Uncle Of Mine Taught Me To Speak, Who Was In His Youth An Inland Man; One That Knew Courtship Too Well, For There He Fell In Love. I Have Heard Him Read Many Lectures Against It; And I Thank God I Am Not A Woman, To Be Touched With So Many Giddy Offenses As He Hath Generally Taxed Their Whole Sex Withal.

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

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.