How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
We are advertis'd by our loving friends.