Love Is My Sin, And

If You Would Persuade, You Must Appeal To Interest Rather Than Intellect. We Are Advertis'd By Our Loving Friends.

Simply The Thing That I Am Shall Make Me Live.

For In The Fatness Of These Pursy Times Virtue Itself Of Vice Must Pardon Beg.

Ay, But To Die, And Go We Know Not Where.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.