Highly Fed And Lowly Taught.

Within The Book And Volume Of Thy Brain.

But If The While I Think On Thee, Dear Friend, All Losses Are Restored And Sorrows End.

These Flowers Are Like The Pleasures Of The World.

Our Doubts Are Traitors And Make Us Lose The Good We Oft Might Win By Fearing To Attempt.

We Make Ourselves Fools To Disport Ourselves And Spend Our Flatteries To Drink Those Men Upon Whose Age We Void It Up Again With Poisonous Spite And Envy.