If There Be Devils, Would I Were

Still Constant Is A Wondrous Excellence.

Tongues I'll Hang On Every Tree That Shall Civil Sayings Show. . . .

Alas, That Love, Whose View Is Muffled Still, Should Without Eyes See Pathways To His Will!

In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.