Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost

If Poisonous Minerals, And If That Tree, Whose Fruit Threw Death On Else Immortal Us, If Lecherous Goats, If Serpents Envious Cannot Be Damned; Alas; Why Should I Be?

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.

Goe And Catche A Falling Starre, Get With Child A Mandrake Root, Tell Me, Where All Past Yeares Are, Or Who Cleft The Divel's Foot. Teach Me To Hear Mermaides' Singing, Or To Keep Of Envies Stinging, And Finde What Winde Serves To Advance An Honest Minde.

I Find No Abhorring In My Appetite.

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.