In Peace There's Nothing So

An Arrant Traitor As Any Is In The Universal World, Or In France, Or In England.

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.