Hang Those That Talk Of Fear.

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

And, Looking On It With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, "it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See," Quoth He, "how The World Wags."

There Lives Within The Very Flame Of Love A Kind Of Wick Or Snuff That Will Abate It.

For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

If Love Be Blind, It Best Agrees With Night