I Go, I Go, Look How I

Yet Nor The Lays Of Birds Nor The Sweet Smell Of Different Flowers In Odour And In Hue Could Make Me Any Summer's Story Tell, Or From Their Proud Lap Pluck Them Where They Grew; Nor Did I Wonder At The Lily's White, Nor Praise The Deep Vermilion In The Rose; They Were But Sweet, But Figures Of Delight, Drawn After You, You Pattern Of All Those.

For Oaths Are Straws, Men's Faiths Are Wafer-cakes, And Hold-fast Is The Only Dog.

Opinion, A Sovereign Mistress Of Effects.

Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty Is His.

That Which I Would Discover The Law Of Friendship Bids Me To Conceal.