To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek

Alas, How Love Can Trifle With Itself!

A Good Man's Fortune May Grow Out At Heels.

Haply A Woman's Voice May Do Some Good When Articles Too Nicely Urged Be Stood On.

To Gild Refined Gold, To Paint The Lily... Is Wasteful And Ridiculous Excess

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.