Much Malice Mingled With A Little Wit

The First Is The Law, The Last Prerogative.

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To Range.

Let Fortune Empty Her Whole Quiver On Me, I Have A Soul That, Like An Ample Shield, Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More; Fate Was Not Mine, Nor Am I Fate's: Souls Know No Conquerors.

And Plenty Makes Us Poor.