A Fool's Bolt Is Soon Shot.

If I Could Write The Beauty Of Your Eyes And In Fresh Numbers Number All Your Graces, The Age To Come Would Say, 'this Poet Lies; Such Heavenly Touches Ne'er Touch'd Earthly Faces.'

Tax Not So Bad A Voice To Slander Music Any More Than Once.

He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.

O, She Misused Me Past The Endurance Of A Block.

Some Grief Shows Much Of Love, But Much Of Grief Shows Still Some Want Of Wit.