If Chance Will Have Me King, Why,

Omittance Is No Quittance.

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

How Much Better Is It To Weep At Joy Than To Joy At Weeping?

The Expedition Of My Violent Love Outrun The Pauser, Reason.