Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A

Virtue Itself Scapes Not Calumnious Strokes.

It Is A Wise Father That Knows His Own Child.

He Uses His Folly Like A Stalking-horse, And Under The Presentation Of That He Shoots His Wit.

The Weary Sun Hath Made A Golden Set And By The Bright Tract Of His Fiery Car Gives Token Of A Goodly Day To-morrow.

All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell Deeds.