All The Perfumes Of Arabia Will Not

I Can No Longer Live By Thinking.

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

I Am Giddy, Expectation Whirls Me Round. The Imaginary Relish Is So Sweet That It Enchants My Sense.

His Worst Fault Is, He's Given To Prayer; He Is Something Peevish That Way.

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.