Ornament Is But The Guiled

So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.​​​​​​

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

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

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.

Bid The Dishonest Man Mend Himself; If He Mend, He Is No Longer Dishonest.