The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

I'll Be At Charges For A Looking-glass And Entertain A Score Or Two Of Tailors To Study Fashions To Adorn My Body: Since I Am Crept In Favor With Myself, I Will Maintain It With Some Little Cost.

He That Filches From Me My Good Name Robs Me Of That Which Enriches Him And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.

And She's Fair I Love.

Come Not Within The Measure Of My Wrath.