A Knock-down Argument; 'tis But A Word

The Blushing Beauties Of A Modest Maid.

None, None Descends Into Himself, To Find The Secret Imperfections Of His Mind: But Every One Is Eagle-ey'd To See Another's Faults, And His Deformity.

Farewell, Too Little, And Too Lately Known, Whom I Began To Think And Call My Own.

Bold Knaves Thrive Without One Grain Of Sense, But Good Men Starve For Want Of Impudence.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.