Thou Shalt Not Stir One Foot To

Virtue And Genuine Graces In Themselves Speak What No Words Can Utter.

Lawn As White As Driven Snow; Cyprus Black As E'er Was Crow; Gloves As Sweet As Damask Roses.

My Meaning In Saying He Is A Good Man, Is To Have You Understand Me That He Is Sufficient.

Those That Much Covet Are With Gain So Fond, For What They Have Not, That Which They Possess They Scatter And Unloose It From Their Bond, And So, By Hoping More, They Have But Less; Or, Gaining More, The Profit Of Excess Is But To Surfeit, And Such Griefs Sustain, That They Prove Bankrupt In This Poor-rich Gain.

I Do Know When The Blood Burns, How Prodigal The Soul Lends The Tongue Vows.