True Apothecary Thy Drugs Art Quick

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.

Neither My Place, Nor Aught I Heard Of Business, Hath Raised Me From My Bed; Nor Doth The General Care Take Hold On Me; For My Particular Grief Is Of So Floodgate And O'erbearing Nature That It Engluts And Swallows Other Sorrows, And It Is Still Itself.

The Common Curse Of Mankind, Folly And Ignorance, Be Thine In Great Revenue!

Two May Keep Counsel Putting One Away!