Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst

A Thankful Man Owes A Courtesy Ever; The Unthankful But When He Needs It.

Whom The Disease Of Talking Still Once Posses-seth, He Can Never Hold His Peace.

Whom Hatred Frights, Let Him Not Dream Of Sovereignty.

Thy Praise Or Dispraise Is To Me Alike; One Doth Not Stroke Me, Nor The Other Strike.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.