But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

The Propriety Of Thoughts And Words, Which Are The Hidden Beauties Of A Play, Are But Confusedly Judged In The Vehemence Of Action.

Fool, Not To Know That Love Endures No Tie, And Jove But Laughs At Lovers' Perjury.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

There Is A Proud Modesty In Merit.

For Danger Levels Man And Brute And All Are Fellows In Their Need.