Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain

Rich Gifts Wax Poor When Givers Prove Unkind.

I Hold My Peace, Sir? No; No, I Will Speak As Liberal As The North; Let Heaven And Men And Devils, Let Them All, All, All, Cry Shame Against Me, Yet I'll Speak.

I Can No Other Answer Make, But, Thanks, And Thanks.

Things Sweet To Taste Prove In Digestion Sour.

And Yet, By Heaven, I Think My Love As Rare As Any She Belied With False Compare.