Mischiefs Feed / Like Beasts, Till They

Good Men But See Death, The Wicked Taste It.

Let Those That Merely Talk And Never Think, That Live In The Wild Anarchy Of Drink

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

Blueness Doth Express Trueness.

Spread Yourself Upon His Bosom Publicly, Whose Heart You Would Eat In Private.