Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes,

Affliction Teacheth A Wicked Person Sometime To Pray; Prosperity Never.

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

If Men Will Impartially, And Not Asquint, Look Toward The Offices And Function Of A Poet, They Will Easily Conclude To Themselves The Impossibility Of Any Man's Being A Good Poet Without First Being A Good Man.

Of All Wild Beasts Preserve Me From A Tyrant; And Of All Tame A Flatterer.

All Concord's Born Of Contraries.