O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic,

What, With My Tongue In Your Tail? Nay, Come Again, Good Kate; I Am A Gentleman.

Like Madness, Is The Glory Of This Life.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

If Her Breath Were As Terrible As Her Terminations, There Were No Living Near Her, She Would Infect To The North Star!

O, A Kiss Long As My Exile, Sweet As My Revenge! Now, By The Jealous Queen Of Heaven, That Kiss I Carried From Thee, Dear, And My True Lip Hath Virgined It E'er Since.