Affliction May One Day Smile Again; And

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing, And Is Not Careful What They Mean Thereby, Knowing That With The Shadow Of His Wings He Can At Pleasure Stint Their Melody: Even So Mayest Thou The Giddy Men Of Rome.

Let The End Try The Man.

Love's Not Love When It Is Mingled With Regards That Stand Aloof From Th' Entire Point.