Faults That Are Rich Are Fair.

Sweet Are The Uses Of Adversity

It Is Lost At Dice, What Ancient Honor Won.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.

Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity Him.

We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.