I Am One, My Liege, Whom The

To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow Pace At First.

'sblood, You Starveling, You Elf-skin, You Dried Neat's Tongue, You Bull's Pizzle, You Stock-fish! O For Breath To Utter What Is Like Thee! You Tailor's-yard, You Sheath, You Bowcase; You Vile Standing-tuck!

To Have Seen Much And To Have Nothing Is To Have Rich Eyes And Poor Hands.

Our Praises Are Our Wages.

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.