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To-morrow, Julia, I betimes must rise, For some small fault to offer sacrifice: The altar's ready: fire to consume The fat; breathe thou, and there's the rich perfume.

Let but thy voice engender with the string, And angels will be born while thou dost sing.

He that will not love must be My scholar, and learn this of me: There be in love as many fears As the summer's corn has ears: Sighs, and sobs, and sorrows more Than the sand that makes the shore: Freezing cold and fiery heats, Fainting swoons and deadly sweats; Now an ague, then a fever, Both tormenting lovers ever. Would'st thou know, besides all these, How hard a woman 'tis to please, How cross, how sullen, and how soon She shifts and changes like the moon. How false, how hollow she's in heart: And how she is her own least part: How high she's priz'd, and worth but small; Little thou'lt love, or not at all.