How Fortune Piles Her Sports When She

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

I Am Beholden To Calumny, That She Hath So Endeavored To Belie Me.-it Shall Make Me Set A Surer Guard On Myself, And Keep A Better Watch Upon My Actions.

The Voice So Sweet, The Words So Fair, As Some Soft Chime Had Stroked The Air; And Though The Sound Had Parted Thence, Still Left An Echo In The Sense.

Many Punishments Sometimes, And In Some Cases, As Much Discredit A Prince As Many Funerals A Physician.