O, How Wretched Is That

I'll Speak In A Monstrous Little Voice.

Hardness Ever Of Hardness Is Mother.

Princes Have But Their Titles For Their Glories, An Outward Honor For An Inward Toil; And, For Unfelt Imaginations, They Often Feel A World Of Restless Cares.

Wishers Were Ever Fools.

Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner Lost And Won, Than Women's Are.