How Fortune Piles Her Sports When She

Whom Hatred Frights, Let Him Not Dream Of Sovereignty.

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

Language Most Shows A Man, Speak That I May See Thee.

Nor Use Too Swelling, Or Ill-sounded Words . . . .

O, For An Engine, To Keep Back All Clocks, Or Make The Sun Forget His Motion!