For I Am Proverbed With A Grandsire

If You Can Look Into The Seeds Of Time, And Say Which Grain Will Grow And Which Will Not, Speak Then Unto Me.

And Yet, By Heaven, I Think My Love As Rare As Any She Belied With False Compare.

The Gods Are Deaf To Hot And Peevish Vows. They Are Polluted Off'rings, More Abhorred! Than Spotted Livers In The Sacrifice.

A Woman Impudent And Mannish Grown Is Not More Loath'd Than An Effeminate Man.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.