Best men oft are moulded out of faults.
Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.
What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart
Pain pays the income of each precious thing.
The Dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service; Are they inform'd of this?
A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.