The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

He Was Ever Precise In Promise-keeping.

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.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

Make Less Thy Body Hence, And More Thy Grace. Leave Gormandizing.