There Is No Greater Hell

Custom Is The Most Certain Mistress Of Language, As The Public Stamp Makes The Current Money.

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.

The Way To Rise Is To Obey And Please.

In Small Proportions We Just Beauties See; And In Short Measures, Life May Perfect Be.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.