Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead

The Art Of Our Necessities Is Strange That Can Make Vile Things Precious.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine.

To Beguile The Time, Look Like The Time.

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

Manhood Is Melted Into Courtesies, Valor Into Compliment, And Men Are Only Turned Into Tongue, And Trim Ones, Too.