Men's Faults Do Seldom To Themselves Appear.

Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.

There's Nothing In This World Can Make Me Joy.

The End Crowns All, And That Old Common Arbitrator, Time, Will One Day End It.

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

No Worse A Husband Than The Best Of Men.