For Brutus Is An Honourable Man; So

What Must Be Shall Be.

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.

Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

Nature Hath Framed Strange Fellows In Her Time.

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.