I am in some sort a _general_ lover.
_Marg_.

In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it _you_ love?
_Simon_.

Simply, all things that live, From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, And God-resembling likeness.

The poor fly, That makes short holiday in the sunbeam, And dies by some child's hand.

The feeble bird With little wings, yet greatly venturous In the upper sky.