What Feeds Me Destroys Me.

Where Both Deliberate, The Love Is Slight: Who Ever Lov'd, That Lov'd Not At First Sight?

Ah Fair Zenocrate, Divine Zenocrate, Fair Is Too Foul An Epithet For Thee.

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

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.

All Places Are Alike, And Every Earth Is Fit For Burial.