To Fear The Worst Oft Cures The

How Wayward Is This Foolish Love That, Like A Testy Babe, Will Scratch The Nurse And Presently, All Humble, Kiss The Rod.

Yet This My Comfort: When Your Words Are Done, My Woes End Likewise With The Evening Sun.

For Mine Own Part, It Was Greek To Me.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.

I Have Of Late--but Wherefore I Know Not--lost All My Mirth, Forgone All Custom Of Exercise.