No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or

The Voice So Sweet, The Words So Fair, As Some Soft Chime Had Stroked The Air; And Though The Sound Had Parted Thence, Still Left An Echo In The Sense.

For Whose Sake, Henceforth, All His Vows Be Such, As What He Loves May Never Like Too Much.

He That Would Have His Virtue Published, Is Not The Servant Of Virtue, But Glory.

Tis The Common Disease Of All Your Musicians That They Know No Mean, To Be Entreated, Either To Begin Or End.

Tell Troth And Shame The Devil.