I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.

Our Doubts Are Traitors And Make Us Lose The Good We Oft Might Win By Fearing To Attempt.

I Must Have Liberty Withal, As Large A Charter As The Wind, To Blow On Whom I Please, For So Fools Have.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.