Thou Art The Best O'

Base Is The Slave That Pays.

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

Therefore I Tell My Sorrows To The Stones; Who, Though They Cannot Answer My Distress, Yet In Some Sort They Are Better Than The Tribunes, For That They Will Not Intercept My Tale: When I Do Weep, They Humbly At My Feet Receive My Tears And Seem To Weep With Me; And, Were They But Attired In Grave Weeds, Rome Could Afford No Tribune Like To These.

Love Is A Smoke Rais'd With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purg'd, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vex'd, A Sea Nourish'd With Lovers' Tears; What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet.

Unbidden Guests Are Often Welcomest When They Are Gone.