O, Full Of Scorpions Is My Mind!

That Affable Familiar Ghost Which Nightly Gulls Him With Intelligence.

You Are Yoked With A Lamb, That Carries Anger As The Flint Bears Fire; Who, Much Enforced, Shows A Hasty Spank, And Straight Is Cold Again.

O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee Fickle.

Grief Best Is Pleased With Grief's Society.

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.