Black Is A Pearl In A Woman's

Pure Innovation Is More Gross Than Error.

We Inherit Nothing Truly, But What Our Actions Make Us Worthy Of.

And For The Authentical Truth Of Either Person Or Actions, Who (worth The Respecting) Will Expect It In A Poem, Whose Subject Is Not Truth, But Things Like Truth? Poor Envious Souls They Are That Cavil At Truth's Want In These Natural Fictions; Material Instruction, Elegant And Sententious Excitation To Virtue, And Deflection From Her Contrary, Being The Soul, Limbs, And Limits Of An Authentical Tragedy.

Man Is A Torch Borne In The Wind; A Dream But Of A Shadow, Summed With All His Substance.

Blood, Though It Sleep A Time, Yet Never Dies. The Gods On Murtherers Fix Revengeful Eyes.