There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such

O, A Kiss Long As My Exile, Sweet As My Revenge! Now, By The Jealous Queen Of Heaven, That Kiss I Carried From Thee, Dear, And My True Lip Hath Virgined It E'er Since.

He Hath Borne Himself Beyond The Promise Of His Age, Doing, In The Figure Of A Lamb, The Feats Of A Lion.

I Am A Man More Sinned Against Than Sinning

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

Society Is No Comfort, To One Not Sociable.