One Cannot Say He Wanted Wit, But

Fortune, That With Malicious Joydoes Man Her Slave Oppress,proud Of Her Office To Destroy,is Seldom Pleasd To Bless.

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.

Fool, Not To Know That Love Endures No Tie, And Jove But Laughs At Lovers' Perjury.

A Brave Man Scorns To Quarrel Once A Day; Like Hectors In At Every Petty Fray.

So The False Spider, When Her Nets Are Spread, Deep Ambushed In Her Silent Den Does Lie.