News As Wholesome As The Morning Air.

I Pray, What Flowers Are These? The Pansy This, O, That's For Lover's Thoughts.

Blood, Though It Sleep A Time, Yet Never Dies. The Gods On Murtherers Fix Revengeful Eyes.

Who To Himself Is Law No Law Doth Need; Offends None And Is King Indeed.

Ignorance Is The Mother Of Admiration.

And For The Authentical Truth Of Either Person Or Actions, Who (worth The Respecting) Will Expect It In A Poem, Whose Subject Is Not Truth, But Things Like Truth? Poor Envious Souls They Are That Cavil At Truth's Want In These Natural Fictions; Material Instruction, Elegant And Sententious Excitation To Virtue, And Deflection From Her Contrary, Being The Soul, Limbs, And Limits Of An Authentical Tragedy.