The soul of sweet delight, can never be defiled.

I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall.

The moon, like a flower in heaven's high bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.

You become what you behold.

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.

To the eyes of a miser a guinea is more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful proportions than a vine filled with grapes.