I Will Tear This Folly From My

Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller, That Gangs About Making Frays In The Street; But Credit Is A Decent Honest Man, That Sits At Hame And Makes The Pat Play.

Here Is Neither Want Of Appetite Nor Mouths, Pray Heaven We Be Not Scant Of Meat Or Mirth.

True Love's The Gift Which God Has Given To Man Alone Beneath The Heaven: It Is Not Fantasy's Hot Fire, Whose Wishes Soon As Granted Fly; It Liveth Not In Fierce Desire.

We Often Praise The Evening Clouds, And Tints So Gay And Bold, But Seldom Think Upon Our God, Who Tinged These Clouds With Gold.

But Woe Awaits A Country When She Sees The Tears Of Bearded Men.