It Is A Familiar Beast To Man,

It Is The Very Error Of The Moon; She Comes More Nearer Earth Than She Was Wont, And Makes Men Mad.

It Is Held That Valor Is The Chiefest Virtue, And Most Dignifies The Haver.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

My Charity Is Outrage, Life My Shame; And In That Shame Still Live My Sorrow's Rage!

Though Music Oft Hath Such A Charm To Make Bad Good, And Good Provoke To Harm.