Plain And Not Honest Is Too Harsh

Like Madness, Is The Glory Of This Life.

I Have A Soul Of Lead So Stakes Me To The Ground I Cannot Move.

Who Knows Himself A Braggart, Let Him Fear This; For It Will Come To Pass That Every Braggart Will Be Found An Ass.

What Our Contempts Do Often Hurl From Us, We Wish It Ours Again.

This Bud Of Love, By Summer's Ripening Breath, May Prove A Beauteous Flower When Next We Meet