Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry,

To You Your Father Should Be As A God; One That Composed Your Beauties, Yea, And One To Whom You Are But As A Form In Wax, By Him Imprinted, And Within His Power To Leave The Figure Or Disfigure It.

Now The Good Gods Forbid That Our Renowned Rome, Whose Gratitude Towards Her Deserved Children Is Enrolled In Jove's Own Book, Like An Unnatural Dam Should Now Eat Up Her Own!

Fruits That Blossom First Will First Be Ripe.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.