You Cannot Call It Love,

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.

Who Finds The Heifer Dead And Bleeding Fresh And Sees Fast-by A Butcher With An Axe, But Will Suspect 'twas He That Made The Slaughter?

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.

They That Stand High Have Many Blasts To Shake Them.

His Forward Voice Now Is To Speak Well Of His Friend. His Backward Voice Is To Utter Foul Speeches And To Detract.