My Stars Shine Darkly Over Me

This Fellow Pecks Up Wit, As Pigeons Peas; And Utters It Again When God Doth Please: He Is Wit's Pedler; And Retails His Wares.

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows Of Dross.

But Miserable Most, To Love Unloved? This You Should Pity Rather Than Despise

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.