Jigging Veins Of Rhyming Mother Wits.

You Must Be Proud, Bold, Pleasant, Resolute, And Now And Then Stab, As Occasion Serves.

It Lies Not In Our Power To Love Or Hate, For Will In Us Is Overruled By Fate.

My Men Like Satyrs Grazing On The Lawns, / Shall With Their Goat-feet Dance An Antic Hay.

Things That Are Not At All, Are Never Lost.

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.