A Good Old Man, Sir. He Will

He That Is Strucken Blind Can Not Forget The Precious Treasure Of His Eyesight Lost.

To Gild Refined Gold, To Paint The Lily... Is Wasteful And Ridiculous Excess

O, Thou Hast Damnable Iteration; And Art, Indeed, Able To Corrupt A Saint.

I Have Been Studying How I May Compare This Prison Where I Live Unto The World; And, For Because The World Is Populous, And Here Is Not A Creature But Myself, I Cannot Do It. Yet I'll Hammer It Out.

I Do I Know Not What, And Fear To Find Mine Eye Too Great A Flatterer For My Mind. Fate, Show Thy Force. Ourselves We Do Not Owe. What Is Decreed Must Be; And Be This So.