In The Hope To Meet Shortly Again,

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Doing, A Filthy Pleasure Is, And Short; And Done, We Straight Repent Us Of The Sport: Let Us Not Rush Blindly On Unto It, Like Lustful Beasts, That Only Know To Do It: For Lust Will Languish, And That Heat Decay, But Thus, Thus, Keeping Endless Holy-.

Nor For My Peace Will I Go Far, As Wanderers Do, That Still Do Roam, But Make My Strengths, Such As They Are, Here In My Bosom, And At Home.

I See Compassion May Become A Justice, Though It Be A Weakness, I Confess, And Nearer A Vice Than A Virtue.

That I Might Live Alone Once With My Gold! O, 'tis A Sweet Companion! Kind And True: A Man May Trust It When His Father Cheats Him, Brother, Or Friend, Or Wife. O Wondrous Pelf! That Which Makes All Men False, Is True Itself.