All Hoods Make Not Monks.

Who Would Be So Mocked With Glory, Or To Live But In A Dream Of Friendship, To Have His Pomp And All What State Compounds But Only Painted, Like His Varnished Friends?

Full Many A Glorious Morn I Have Seen Flatter The Mountain-tops With Sovereign Eye, Kissing With Golden Face The Meadows Green, Gilding Pale Streams With Heavenly Alchemy.

By Innocence I Swear, And By My Youth, I Have One Heart, One Bosom, And One Truth, And That No Woman Has, Nor Never None Shall Mistress Be Of It Save I Alone.

Faults That Are Rich Are Fair.

Slander Lives Upon Succession, For Ever Housed Where It Gets Possession.