Security Is The Chief Enemy Of Mortals.

If [god] Send Me No Husband, For The Which Blessing I Am At Him Upon My Knees Every Morning And Evening.

I Am Joined With No Foot Land-rakers, No Long-staff, Sixpenny Strikers, None Of These Mad, Mustachio Purple-hued Maltworms, But With Nobility And Tranquillity.

You Must Confine Yourself Within The Modest Limits Of Order.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

Have I Thought Long To See This Morning’s Face, And Doth It Give Me Such A Sight As This?