I Now Think, Love Is

Tis Not The Wholesome Sharp Mortality, Or Modest Anger Of A Satiric Spirit, That Hurts Or Wounds The Body Of A State, But The Sinister Application Of The Malicious, Ignorant, And Base Interpreter; Who Will Distort And Strain The General Scope And Purpose Of An Author To His Particular And Private Spleen.

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome

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

In The Hope To Meet Shortly Again, And Make Our Absence Sweet.

Well, I Will Scourge Those Apes, And To These Courteous Eyes Oppose A Mirror, As Large As Is The Stage Whereon We Act; Where They Shall See The Time's Deformity Anatomised In Every Nerve, And Sinew, With Constant Courage, And Contempt Of Fear.