And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's

Heaven Is Above All Yet; There Sits A Judge, That No King Can Corrupt.

Those, That With Haste Will Make A Mighty Fire, Begin It With Weak Straws.

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.

The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Can Afford Is A Spotless Reputation.