You Kiss By Th' Book.

Fair Thoughts And Happy Hours Attend On You.

Tis In My Memory Lock'd, And You Yourself Shall Keep The Key Of It.

Men That Make Envy And Crooked Malice Nourishment, Dare Bite The Best.

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.