Is Not The Truth The

Who Knows Himself A Braggart, Let Him Fear This; For It Will Come To Pass That Every Braggart Will Be Found An Ass.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run.

Discuss Unto Me: Art Thou Officer, Or Art Thou Base, Common, And Popular?

Ask God For Temp'rance. That's Th' Appliance Only Which Your Disease Requires.