Good Wombs Have Borne Bad

You Told A Lie, An Odious Damned Lie; Upon My Soul, A Lie, A Wicked Lie.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.

My Salad Days, When I Was Green In Judgment.

Good God, The Souls Of All My Tribe Defend From Jealousy!

All Love's Pleasure Shall Not Match Its Woe.