Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious

Lady, With Me, With Me Thy Fortune Lies.

All Impediments In Fancy's Course Are Motives Of More Fancy.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.

He Does Me Double Wrong That Wounds Me With The Flatteries Of His Tongue.

The Tempter Or The Tempted, Who Sins Most? Ha! Not She: Nor Doth She Tempt: But It Is I That, Lying By The Violet In The Sun, Do As The Carrion Does, Not As The Flower, Corrupt With Virtuous Season.