Wrong Hath But Wrong, And

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!

Such Men As He Be Never At Heart's Ease Whiles They Behold A Greater Than Themselves, And Therefore Are They Very Dangerous.

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.

Chewing The Food Of Sweet And Bitter Fancy.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.