I Do Desire We May Be Better

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

No, No, I Am But Shadow Of Myself: You Are Deceived, My Substance Is Not Here.

Farewell The Tranquil Mind! Farewell Content! Farewell The Plumed Troops, And The Big Wars That Make Ambition Virtue.

So Loving To My Mother, That He Might Not Beteem The Winds Of Heaven, Visit Her Face' Too Roughly.

By How Much Unexpected, By So Much We Must Awake Endeavour For Defence; For Courage Mounteth With Occasion.