Praising What Is Lost Makes The Remembrance

Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma Or A Hideous Dream.

The Silence Often Of Pure Innocence Persuades When Speaking Fails.

Day, Night, Late, Early, At Home, Abroad, Alone, In Company, Waking Or Sleeping, Still My Care Hath Been To Have Her Match'd; And Having Now Provided A Gentleman Of Princely Parentage, Of Fair Demesnes, Youthful, And Nobly Train'd, Stuff'd, As They Say, With Honourable Parts, Proportion'd As One's Thought Would Wish A Man- And Then To Have A Wretched Puling Fool, A Whining Mammet, In Her Fortune's Tender, To Answer 'i'll Not Wed, I Cannot Love; I Am Too Young, I Pray You Pardon Me'!

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

The Fool Multitude, That Choose By Show, Not Learning More Than The Fond Eye Doth Teach.