I Dare Do All That May Become

The Barge She Sat In, Like A Burnish'd Throne, Burnt On The Water.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?

He Wears His Faith But As The Fashion Of His Hat.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing, And Is Not Careful What They Mean Thereby, Knowing That With The Shadow Of His Wings He Can At Pleasure Stint Their Melody: Even So Mayest Thou The Giddy Men Of Rome.