A Lover's Eyes Will Gaze An Eagle

Being Of No Power To Make His Wishes Good: His Promises Fly So Beyond His State That What He Speaks Is All In Debt; He Owes For Every Word.

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

Past And To Come, Seems Best; Things Present, Worse.

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?