He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum

But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No Blot? Thou Mayst Be False, And Yet I Know It Not.

You Know That I Do Fawn On Men, And Hug Them Hard, And After Scandal Them.

Light And Lust Are Deadly Enemies.

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.