Why, All Delights Are Vain, But That

Two Loves I Have, Of Comfort And Despair, Which Like Two Spirits Do Suggest Me Still: The Better Angel Is A Man Right Fair, The Worser Spirit A Woman Coloured Ill.

To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek The Light Of Truth.

There's No Art To Find The Mind's Construction In The Face.

With These Shreds They Vented Their Complainings, Which Being Answered And A Petition Granted Them, A Strange One, To Break The Heart Of Generosity, And Make Bold Power Look Pale, They Threw Their Caps As They Would Hang Them On The Horns O' Th' Moon, Shouting Their Emulation.

No Might Nor Greatness In Mortality Can Censure 'scape; Back- Wounding Calumny The Whitest Virtue Strikes. What King So Strong Can Tie The Gall Up In The Slanderous Tongue?