Who Is It That Can Tell Me

O My Good Lord, That Comfort Comes Too Late, 'tis Like A Pardon After Execution. That Gentle Physic, Given In Time, Had Cured Me; But Now I Am Past All Comforts Here But Prayers.

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

Be Cheerful; Wipe Thine Eyes: Some Falls Are Means The Happier To Arise

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.

My Friends Were Poor, But Honest, So's My Love.