Poor And Content Is Rich, And Rich

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.

There Is A Devilish Mercy In The Judge, If You'll Implore It, That Will Free Your Life, But Fetter You Till Death.

There Is None Of My Uncle's Marks Upon You; He Taught Me How To Know A Man In Love; In Which Cage Of Rushes I Am Sure You Are Not Prisoner.

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays; To Sport Would Be As Tedious As To Work.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.