He Jests At Scars That Never Felt

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty Bits Make Rich The Ribs, But Backrout Quite The Wits.

The Rain, It Raineth Every Day.

Why, Thou Knowest I Am As Valiant As Hercules, But Beware Instinct. The Lion Will Not Touch The True Prince. Instinct Is A Great Matter. I Was A Coward On Instinct.

Wisdom And Goodness To The Vile Seem Vile; Filths Savour But Themselves.