Beauty Too Rich For Use, For Earth

Remuneration! O! That's The Latin Word For Three Farthings

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.

For In That Sleep Of Death What Dreams May Come.

Small Herbs Have Grace, Great Weeds Do Grow Apace.

Who Would Be So Mocked With Glory, Or To Live But In A Dream Of Friendship, To Have His Pomp And All What State Compounds But Only Painted, Like His Varnished Friends?