Demand Me Nothing: What You Know, You

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

But Thy Eternal Summer Shall Not Fade.

I Have Not Slept. Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma, Or A Hideous Dream: The Genius And The Mortal Instruments Are Then In Council; And The State Of Man, Like To A Little Kingdom, Suffers Then The Nature Of An Insurrection.

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.