A Beggar's Book Outworths A Noble's Blood.

The Pleasing Punishment That Women Bear.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He Were Perfect.

But Thou Art Fair, And At Thy Birth, Dear Boy, Nature And Fortune Join'd To Make Thee Great: Of Nature's Gifts Thou Mayst With Lilies Boast, And With The Half-blown Rose; But Fortune, O!

Now 'tis Spring, And Weeds Are Shallow-rooted; Suffer Them Now And They'll O'ergrow The Garden.