And Where The Offense Is, Let The

Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have All His Rites.

'sblood, You Starveling, You Elf-skin, You Dried Neat's Tongue, You Bull's Pizzle, You Stock-fish! O For Breath To Utter What Is Like Thee! You Tailor's-yard, You Sheath, You Bowcase; You Vile Standing-tuck!

Virtue Is Bold, And Goodness Never Fearful.

There Is Nothing So Confining As The Prisons Of Our Own Perceptions.

We, Ignorant Of Ourselves, Beg Often Our Own Harms, Which The Wise Powers Deny Us For Our Good; So Find We Profit By Losing Of Our Prayers.