But Men May Construe Things After Their

Youth To Itself Rebels, Though None Else Near.

Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

A Rotten Case Abides No Handling.

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?

Through Tattered Clothes Great Vices Do Appear; Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All. Plate Sin With Gold And The Strong Lance Of Justice Hurtless Breaks. Arm It In Rags, A Pigmy's Straw Does Pierce It.