But what is past my help is past my care.
There is a method in man's wickedness; it grows up by degrees.
As men do walk a mile, women should talk an hour, After supper. 'Tis their exercise.
Oh, love will make a dog howl in rhyme.
Grace comes often clad in the dusky robe of desolation.
My virginity, that from my childhood kept me company, is heavier than I can endure to bear. Forgive me, Cupid, for thou art god, and I a wretched creature: I have sinn'd; but be thou merciful, and grant that yet I may enjoy what thou wilt have me love!