Though She Be But Little, She Is

There Is Not One Wise Man In Twenty That Will Praise Himself.

You Are My True And Honourable Wife; As Dear To Me As The Ruddy Drops That Visit My Sad Heart.

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.

An Old Man, Broken With The Storms Of State, Is Come To Lay His Weary Bones Among Ye; Give Him A Little Earth For Charity!

My Only Love Sprung From My Only Hate! Too Early Seen Unknown, And Known Too Late! Prodigious Birth Of Love It Is To Me, That I Must Love A Loathed Enemy.