Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If

Beauty Itself Doth Of Itself Persuade The Eyes Of Men Without An Orator.

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

How Much Salt Water Thrown Away In Waste/ To Season Love, That Of It Doth Not Taste.

Those That Much Covet Are With Gain So Fond, For What They Have Not, That Which They Possess They Scatter And Unloose It From Their Bond, And So, By Hoping More, They Have But Less; Or, Gaining More, The Profit Of Excess Is But To Surfeit, And Such Griefs Sustain, That They Prove Bankrupt In This Poor-rich Gain.

You Cannot, Sir, Take From Me Any Thing That I Will More Willingly Part Withal: Except My Life, Except My Life, Except My Life.