My Love Is As A Fever, Longing

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineerhoist With His Own Petard.

He Is The Most Wretched Of Men Who Has Never Felt Adversity.

No Visor Does Become Black Villainy So Well As Soft And Tender Flattery.

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

If Money Go Before, All Ways Do Lie Open.