He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His

Love Laughs At Locksmiths.

I Have A Bone To Pick With Fate

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.

These Blessed Candles Of The Night.

But Till All Graces Be In One Woman, One Woman Shall Not Come In My Grace. Rich She Shall Be, That's Certain; Wise, Or I'll None; Virtuous, Or I'll Never Cheapen Her; Fair, Or I'll Never Look On Her; Mild, Or Come Not Near Me; Noble, Or Not I For An Angel; Of Good Discourse, And Excellent Musician And Her Hair Shall Be Of What Colour It Shall Please God.