Come What Sorrow Can, It Cannot Countervail

I Love Him For His Sake; And Yet I Know Him A Notorious Liar, Think Him A Great Way Fool, Solely A Coward; Yet These Fix'd Evils Sit So Fit In Him That They Take Place When Virtue's Steely Bones Looks Bleak I' Th' Cold Wind; Withal, Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting On Superfluous Folly.

He Is Winding The Watch Of His Wit; By And By It Will Strike.

Keep Thy Foot Out Of Brothels, Thy Hand Out Of Plackets, Thy Pen From Lender's Books, And Defy The Foul Fiend.

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

Conscience Is A Blushing, Shamefaced Spirit Than Mutinies In A Man's Bosom; It Fills One Full Of Obstacles.