The Error Of Our Eye Directs Our

Well, Honor Is The Subject Of My Story.

The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left Unshown, Is Often Left Unloved.

What's The News? None, My Lord, But That The World's Grown Honest, Then Is Doomsday Near.

I Will Not Trust You, I, Nor Longer Stay In Your Curst Company. Your Hands Than Mine Are Quicker For A Fray, My Legs Are Longer Though, To Run Away.

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat, Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This, That To The Use Of Actions Fair And Good He Likewise Gives A Frock Or Livery That Aptly Is Put On. Refrain Tonight, And That Shall Lend A Kind Of Easiness To The Next Abstinence; The Next More Easy; For Use Almost Can Change The Stamp Of Nature.