Force Works On Servile Natures, Not The

If You Be Sick, Your Own Thoughts Make You Sick

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

A New Disease? I Know Not, New Or Old, But It May Well Be Called Poor Mortals Plague For, Like A Pestilence, It Doth Infect The Houses Of The Brain Till Not A Thought, Or Motion, In The Mind, Be Free From The Black Poison Of Suspect.

Heaven Prepares Good Men With Crosses; But No Ill Can Happen To A Good Man.

How Near To Good Is What Is Fair!