Thou Art Figured Blind, And

Greatness, With Private Men Esteem'd A Blessing, Is To Me A Curse; And We, Whom, For Our High Births, They Conclude The Happy Freemen, Are The Only Slaves. Happy The Golden Mean!

The Soul Is Strong That Trusts In Goodness.

If You Like Not Hanging, Drown Yourself; Take Some Course For Your Reputation.

Shall This Nectar Run Useless, Then, To Waste? Or ... These Lips, That Open Like The Morn, Breathing Perfumes, On Such As Dare Approach Them, Be Untouch'd? They Must--nay, 'tis In Vain To Make Resistance-- Be Often Kissed And Tasted.

I Have Play'd The Fool, The Gross Fool, To Believe The Bosom Of A Friend Will Hold A Secret Mine Own Could Not Contain.