Art Hath An Enemy Call'd

A Good Poet's Made As Well As Born.

Your Highest Female Grace Is Silence.

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.

Heaven Prepares Good Men With Crosses; But No Ill Can Happen To A Good Man.

The Day For Whose Returns, And Many, All These Pray; And So Do I.