Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.

I Long To Hear The Story Of Your Life, Which Must Take The Ear Strangely.

They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies, Imagine Every Eye Beholds Their Blame.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

He Was Ever Precise In Promise-keeping.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.