Force Works On Servile Natures, Not The

Soul Of The Age! The Applause! Delight! The Wonder Of Our Stage!

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

Tis No Sin Love's Fruits To Steal; But The Sweet Thefts To Reveal; To Be Taken, To Be Seen, These Have Crimes Accounted Been.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.

Force Works On Servile Natures, Not The Free.