So. Lie There, My Art.

A Virtuous And A Christianlike Conclusion-- To Pray For Them That Have Done Scathe To Us.

Blest Are Those Whose Blood And Judgment Are So Well Commingled, That They Are Not A Pipe For Fortune's Finger To Sound What Stop She Please.

But O, How Bitter A Thing It Is To Look Into Happiness Through Another Man's Eyes.

The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good Will.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.