The Seeming Truth Which Cunning

They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit.

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays; To Sport Would Be As Tedious As To Work.

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

For Now I Stand As One Upon A Rock Environed With A Wilderness Of Sea, Who Marks The Waxing Tide Grow Wave By Wave, Expecting Ever When Some Envious Surge Will In His Brinish Bowels Swallow Him.

Take It In What Sense Thou Wilt.