Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing, And Is Not Careful What They Mean Thereby, Knowing That With The Shadow Of His Wings He Can At Pleasure Stint Their Melody: Even So Mayest Thou The Giddy Men Of Rome.

Bad Is The Trade That Must Play Fool To Sorrow, Ang'ring Itself And Others.

Weed Your Better Judgments Of All Opinion That Grows Rank In Them.

What? Do I Love Her, That I Desire To Hear Her Speak Again, And Feast Upon Her Eyes

I Love Him For His Sake; And Yet I Know Him A Notorious Liar, Think Him A Great Way Fool, Solely A Coward; Yet These Fix'd Evils Sit So Fit In Him That They Take Place When Virtue's Steely Bones Looks Bleak I' Th' Cold Wind; Withal, Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting On Superfluous Folly.