Barnes Are Blessings.

Take Heed, Dear Heart, Of This Large Privilege; The Hardest Knife Ill-used Doth Lose His Edge.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

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

To Go To Bed After Midnight Is To Go To Bed Betimes

Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.