Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.

All heiresses are beautiful.

That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest, contains the shoring treasure of a soul resolved and brave.

But how can finite grasp Infinity?

Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.

The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.