The Good I Stand On Is My

Men In Rage Strike Those That Wish Them Best.

The Bashful Virgin's Sidelong Looks Of Love, The Matron's Glance That Would Those Looks Reprove.

Day, Night, Late, Early, At Home, Abroad, Alone, In Company, Waking Or Sleeping, Still My Care Hath Been To Have Her Match'd; And Having Now Provided A Gentleman Of Princely Parentage, Of Fair Demesnes, Youthful, And Nobly Train'd, Stuff'd, As They Say, With Honourable Parts, Proportion'd As One's Thought Would Wish A Man- And Then To Have A Wretched Puling Fool, A Whining Mammet, In Her Fortune's Tender, To Answer 'i'll Not Wed, I Cannot Love; I Am Too Young, I Pray You Pardon Me'!

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.

The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows Make.