There Are No Tricks In Plain And

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

The Apprehension Of The Good Gives But The Greater Feeling To The Worse.

O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can Read A Woman? Is There More?

All Is Well Ended If This Suit Be Won. That You Express Content; Which We Will Pay, With Strife To Please You, Day Exceeding Day.

Wisdom Cries Out In The Streets, And No Man Regards It.