I Go, I Go, Look How I

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

And Since You Know You Cannot See Yourself, So Well As By Reflection, I, Your Glass, Will Modestly Discover To Yourself, That Of Yourself Which You Yet Know Not Of.

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

Good Old Grandsire ... We Shall Be Joyful Of Thy Company.

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.