He Who Closes His Ears To The

One Minute Gives Invention To Destroy; What To Rebuild, Will A Whole Age Employ.

Nor Hell A Fury, Like A Woman Scorn'd.

O, She Is The Antidote To Desire.

There Are Come Critics So With Spleen Diseased, They Scarcely Come Inclining To Be Pleased: And Sure He Must Have More Than Mortal Skill, Who Please One Against His Will.

In My Conscience I Believe The Baggage Loves Me, For She Never Speaks Well Of Me Herself, Nor Suffers Any Body Else To Rail At Me.