There Is An Old Poor

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.

Time Travels In Divers Paces With Divers Persons.

Beware The Ides Of March.

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity

I Rather Would Entreat Thy Company; To See The Wonders Of The World Abroad, Than, Living Dully Sluggardized At Home, Wear Out Thy Youth With Shapeless Idleness.