Who Will Not Judge Him

There Is No Greater Hell Than To Be A Prisoner Of Fear.

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

All The Wise World Is Little Else, In Nature, But Parasites Or Subparasites.

It Is An Art To Have So Much Judgment As To Apparel A Lie Well, To Give It A Good Dressing.

It Holds For Good Polity Ever, To Have That Outwardly In Vilest Estimation, Which Inwardly Is Most Dear To Us.