Light And Lust Are Deadly Enemies.

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.

O, What Damned Minutes Tells He O'er Who Dotes, Yet Doubts, Suspects, Yet Fondly Loves!

This World Is Not For Aye, Nor 'tis Not Strange That Even Our Loves Should With Our Fortunes Change, For 'tis A Question Left Us Yet To Prove, Whether Love Lead Fortune, Or Else Fortune Love.

England, Bound In With The Triumphant Sea, Whose Rocky Shore Beats Back The Envious Siege Of Watery Neptune.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?