He that loves Gold, starves more, the more he's fed. - John Ogilby

How could my Son so highly thee incense
What was the wasted Trojans great offence?

Sweet Youth, in Colour no such trust repose.

Why prattle we like children at their play,
Spending thus idle breath, enough to freight
An able vessel of the primer rate?
Our tongues are voluble, and store of words
Invention on all arguments affords,
Scatter'd on fresh occasions here and there,
And what thou say'st thou shalt from others hear.
Let us no longer vainly thus contend,
Like fenceless women, railing to no end.