Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor,

Crack'd In Pieces By Malignant Death.

Ever Note, Lucilius, When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Useth An Enforced Ceremony. There Are No Tricks In Plain And Simple Faith; But Hollow Men, Like Horses Hot At Hand, Make Gallant Show And Promise Of Their Mettle; But When They Should Endure The Bloody Spur, They Fall Their Crests, And Like Deceitful Jades Sink In The Trial.

Of All The Flowers, Me Thinks A Rose Is Best.

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

Remuneration! O! That's The Latin Word For Three Farthings