Every Good Servant Does Not

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

The Clamorous Owl That Nightly Hoots And Wonders At Our Quaint Spirits.

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

For There's No Motion That Tends To Vice In Man, But I Affirm It Is The Woman's Part.