A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling,

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

Canst Thou Not Minister To A Mind Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain

Feed On Her Damask Cheek: She Pined In Thought, And With A Green And Yellow Melancholy She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief

One Good Deed Dying Tongueless Slaughters A Thousand Waiting Upon That. Our Praises Are Our Wages.

The Weariest And Most Loathed Worldly Life, That Age, Ache, Penury And Imprisonment Can Lay On Nature Is A Paradise, To What We Fear Of Death.