Revenge, That Thirsty Dropsy Of Our Souls,

The Sum Of All That Makes A Just Man Happy Consists In The Well Choosing Of His Wife: And There, Well To Discharge It, Does Require Equality Of Years, Of Birth, Of Fortune; For Beauty Being Poor, And Not Cried Up By Birth Or Wealth, Can Truly Mix With Neither. And Wealth, When There's Such Difference In Years, And Fair Descent, Must Make The Yoke Uneasy.

He Is Not Valiant That Dares Lie; But He That Boldly Bears Calamity.

Greatness, With Private Men Esteem'd A Blessing, Is To Me A Curse; And We, Whom, For Our High Births, They Conclude The Happy Freemen, Are The Only Slaves. Happy The Golden Mean!

Great Men, Till They Have Gained Their Ends, Are Giants In Their Promises, But, Those Obtained, Weak Pigmies In Their Performance. And It Is A Maxim Allowed Among Them, So They May Deceive, They May Swear Anything; For The Queen Of Love, As They Hold Constantly, Does Never Punish, But Smile, At Lovers' Perjuries.

I Had Not To This Time Subsisted, But That I Was Supported By Your Frequent Courtesies And Favours.