Hang Those That Talk Of Fear.

Merciful Heaven, Thou Rather With Thy Sharp And Sulphurous Bolt Splits The Unwedgeable And Gnarled Oak Than The Soft Myrtle; But Man, Proud Man, Dressed In A Little Brief Authority, Most Ignorant Of What He's Most Assured His Glassy Essence--like An Angry Ape Plays Such Fantastic Tricks Before High Heaven As Makes The Angels Weep; Who, With Our Spleens, Would All Themselves Laugh Mortal.

If I Shall Be Condemned Upon Surmises, All Proofs Sleeping Else But What Your Jealousies Awake, I Tell You 'tis Rigor And Not Law.

Being Holiday, The Beggar's Shop Is Shut.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here?

Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When It Will Come