My Love's A Noble Madness.

All Objects Lose By Too Familiar A View.

Thou Spring'st A Leak Already In Thy Crown, A Flaw Is In Thy Ill-bak'd Vessel Found; 'tis Hollow, And Returns A Jarring Sound, Yet Thy Moist Clay Is Pliant To Command, Unwrought, And Easy To The Potter's Hand: Now Take The Mould; Now Bend Thy Mind To Feel The First Sharp Motions Of The Forming Wheel.

Luxurious Kings Are To Their People Lost, They Live Like Drones, Upon The Public Cost.

War Is The Trade Of Kings.

Pains Of Love Be Sweeter Far Than All Other Pleasures Are.