Evermore Thanks, The Exchequer Of The Poor

Under The Colour Of Commending Him I Have Access My Own Love To Prefer; But Silvia Is Too Fair, Too True, Too Holy, To Be Corrupted With My Worthless Gifts.

O Thou Invisible Spirit Of Wine, If Thou Has No Name To Be Known By, Let Us Call Thee Devil....o God, That Men Should Put An Enemy In Their Mouths To Steal Away Their Brains! That We Should, With Joy, Pleasance Revel And Applause, Transform Ourselves Into Beasts!

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

Woe, Destruction, Ruin, And Decay; The Worst Is Death And Death Will Have His Day.

Such As We Are Made Of, Such We Be.