What Our Contempts Do Often Hurl From

I Have A Kind Soul That Would Give You Thanks. And Knows Not How To Do It But With Tears.

Tis Beauty That Doth Oft Make Women Proud; But, God He Knows, Thy Share Thereof Is Small.

Cursed Be He That Moves My Bones.

There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.

Who Would Be So Mocked With Glory, Or To Live But In A Dream Of Friendship, To Have His Pomp And All What State Compounds But Only Painted, Like His Varnished Friends?