Extremes, Though Contrary, Have The

And For The Authentical Truth Of Either Person Or Actions, Who (worth The Respecting) Will Expect It In A Poem, Whose Subject Is Not Truth, But Things Like Truth? Poor Envious Souls They Are That Cavil At Truth's Want In These Natural Fictions; Material Instruction, Elegant And Sententious Excitation To Virtue, And Deflection From Her Contrary, Being The Soul, Limbs, And Limits Of An Authentical Tragedy.

For One Heat, All Know, Doth Drive Out Another, One Passion Doth Expel Another Still.

Danger, The Spur Of All Great Minds.

Man Is A Torch Borne In The Wind; A Dream But Of A Shadow, Summed With All His Substance.

He Is At No End Of His Actions Blestwhose Ends Will Make Him Greatest, And Not Best.