Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.
Strike up the drum and march courageously.
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike
If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, And so consequently die. Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?