Time Shall Unfold What Plaited Cunning Hides:

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

O' What May Man Within Him Hide, Though Angel On The Outward Side!

Let Husbands Know Their Wives Have Sense Like Them. They See, And Smell, And Have Their Palates Both For Sweet And Sour, As Husbands Have.

Reputation, Reputation, Reputation! O, I Ha' Lost My Reputation, I Ha' Lost The Immortal Part Of Myself, And What Remains Is Bestial!

Well, God's Above All; And There Be Souls Must Be Saved, And There Be Souls Must Not Be Saved.