All women are ambitious naturallie
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike
Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I am asham'd, however that I seem, To think a word of such simple sound, Of such great matter should be made the ground.
Make me immortal with a kiss.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?