Let Me Be Boiled To Death With

Delay Leads Impotent And Snail-paced Beggary.

Past All Shame, So Past All Truth.

Is There No Pity Sitting In The Clouds, That Sees Into The Bottom Of My Grief?

Let Us, Like Merchants, Show Our Foulest Wares, And Think Perchance They'll Sell; If Not, The Lustre Of The Better Yet To Show Shall Show The Better.

Now The Good Gods Forbid That Our Renowned Rome, Whose Gratitude Towards Her Deserved Children Is Enrolled In Jove's Own Book, Like An Unnatural Dam Should Now Eat Up Her Own!