These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.

Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.

As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.