He Shall Spurn Fate, Scorn Death, And

'tis Not To Make Me Jealous To Say My Wife Is Fair, Feeds Well, Loves Company, Is Free Of Speech, Sings, Plays, And Dances Well; Where Virtue Is, These Are More Virtuous.

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?

Love Is A Smoke Made With The Fume Of Sighs.

When You Depart From Me Sorrow Abides And Happiness Takes His Leave.

Keep Thy Foot Out Of Brothels, Thy Hand Out Of Plackets, Thy Pen From Lender's Books, And Defy The Foul Fiend.