She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves: The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament. In Law, What Plea So Tainted And Corrupt, But, Being Seasoned With A Gracious Voice, Obscures The Show Of Evil? In Religion, What Damned Error, But Some Sober Brow Will Bless It And Approve It With A Text, Hiding The Grossness With Fair Ornament? There Is No Vice So Simple But Assumes Some Mark Of Virtue On His Outward Parts.

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

I And My Bosom Must Debate Awhile, And Then I Would No Other Company.

A Tardiness In Nature, Which Often Leaves The History Unspoke, That It Intends To Do.

The Object Of Art Is To Give Life A Shape.