And In The Morn And

Should The Poor Be Flattered? No; Let The Candied Tongue Lick Absurd Pomp, And Crook The Pregnant Hinges Of The Knee Where Thrift May Follow Fawning.

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.

Experience Teacheth That Resolution Is A Sole Help In Need.

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.