I Am A Feather For Each Wind

He That Is Strucken Blind Can Not Forget The Precious Treasure Of His Eyesight Lost.

I'll Read Enough When I Do See The Very Book Indeed Where All My Sins Are Writ, And That's Myself.

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

Love's Gentle Spring Doth Always Fresh Remain.

Unless The Old Adage Must Be Verified, That Beggars Mounted, Run Their Horse To Death.