Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

Is There No Respect Of Place, Persons, Nor Time In You?

The Prize Of All Too Precious You.

Set Your Heart At Rest. The Fairyland Buys Not The Child Of Me.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.