Good Men But See Death, The Wicked

Language Most Shows A Man; Speak That I May See Thee; It Springs Out Of The Most Retired And Inmost Parts Of Us, And Is The Image Of The Parent Of It, The Mind. No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or Likeness So True As His Speech.

Come, My Celia, Let Us Prove, While We Can, The Sports Of Love, Time Will Not Be Ours For Ever, He, At Length, Our Good Will Sever; Spend Not Then His Gifts In Vain: Suns That Set May Rise Again; But If Once We Lose This Light, 'tis With Us Perpetual Night. Why Should We Defer Our Joys? Fame And Rumour Are But Toys.

You Are Not Now To Think What's Best To Do, As In Beginnings, But What Must Be Done, Being Thus Enter'd; And Slip No Advantage That May Secure You. Let Them Call It Mischief; When It Is Past, And Prosper'd , 'twill Be Virtue.

I See Compassion May Become A Justice, Though It Be A Weakness, I Confess, And Nearer A Vice Than A Virtue.

It Is As Great A Spite To Be Praised In The Wrong Place, And By A Wrong Person, As Can Be Done To A Noble Nature.