Nothing But Man Of All

Wicked Is Not Much Worse Than Indiscreet.

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's Thy Jail.

It Is Too Little To Call Man A Little World; Except God, Man Is A Diminutive To Nothing.

Without Outward Declarations, Who Can Conclude An Inward Love?