Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

Why, All Delights Are Vain; But That Most Vain, Which, With Pain Purchas'd, Doth Inherit Pain.

Twas A Clever Quibble. Here, A Garment For It.

A Woman Would Run Through Fire And Water For Such A Kind Heart.

Tis Safter To Be That Which We Destroy Than By Destruction Dwell In Doubtful Joy.

I Have Nothing Of Woman In Me; Now From Head To Foot I Am Marble-constant.