Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To

Small To Greater Matters Must Give Way.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

Rich Honesty Dwells Like A Miser, Sir, In A Poor House; As Your Pearl In Your Foul Oyster.

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf.

Abate The Edge Of Traitors, Gracious Lord, That Would Reduce These Bloody Days Again And Make Poor England Weep In Streams Of Blood! Let Them Not Live To Taste This Land's Increase That Would With Treason Wound This Fair Land's Peace! Now Civil Wounds Are Stopped, Peace Lives Again: That She May Long Live Here, God Say Amen!