Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth

Anger Is Like A Full Hot Horse, Who Being Allowed His Way, Self-mettle Tires Him.

These Blessed Candles Of The Night.

Why, I Can Smile And Murder Whiles I Smile, And Cry 'content' To That Which Grieves My Heart, And Wet My Cheeks With Artificial Tears, And Frame My Face For All Occasions

The Weariest And Most Loathed Worldly Life, That Age, Ache, Penury And Imprisonment Can Lay On Nature Is A Paradise, To What We Fear Of Death.

Say She Rail; Why, I'll Tell Her Plain She Sings As Sweetly As A Nightingale. Say That She Frown; I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Wash'd With Dew. Say She Be Mute And Will Not Speak A Word; Then I'll Commend Her Volubility, And Say She Uttereth Piercing Eloquence.