A Fusty Nut With No Kernel.

On Rumor's Tongue Continual Slanders Ride.

My Hounds Are Bred Out Of The Spartan Kind; So Flew'd, So Sanded; Their Heads Are Hung With Ears That Sweep Away The Morning Dew.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

Love Laughs At Locksmiths.

To Set A Gloss On Faint Deeds, Hollow Welcomes, Recanting Goodness, Sorry Ere 'tis Shown; But Where There Is True Friendship, There Needs None.