Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting; It Is A Most Sharp Sauce.

God Defend The Right.

Remember Thee! Ay, Thou Poor Ghost, While Memory Holds A Seat In This Distracted Globe.