Court A Mistress, She Denies You; Let

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

No Simple Word That Shall Be Uttered At Our Mirthful Board, Shall Make Us Sad Next Morning; Or Affright The Liberty That We'll Enjoy To-night.

There Is No Greater Hell Than To Be A Prisoner Of Fear.

Truth Is Man's Proper Good, And The Only Immortal Thing Was Given To Our Mortality To Use.

Follow A Shadow, It Still Flies You, Seem To Fly, It Will Pursue: So Court A Mistress, She Denies You; Let Her Alone, She Will Court You. Say Are Not Women Truly, Then, Styled But The Shadows Of Us Men?