Gold Can Gild A Rotten Stick, And

O Sweet Woods, The Delight Of Solitariness!

Yet Sighes, Deare Sighes, Indeeds True Friends You Are That Do Not Leave Your Left Friend At The Wurst, But, As You With My Breast, I Oft Have Nurst So, Gratefull Now, You Waite Upon My Care.

Hope Itself Is A Pain, While It Is Overmatched By Fear.

Who Shoots At The Mid-day Sun, Though He Be So Sure He Shall Never Hit The Mark, Yet As Sure As He Is, He Shall Shoot Higher Than He Who Aims At A Bush.

It Is A Great Happiness To Be Praised Of Them That Are Most Praise-worthy.