She Lov'd Me For The Dangers I

I Prithee Gentle Friend, Let Thy Fair Wisdom, Not Thy Passions, Sway In This Uncivil And Unjust Extent Against Thy Peace.

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

How Ill White Hairs Become A Fool And Jester!

The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of All.