I Have Very Poor And Unhappy Brains

My Rage Is Gone, And I Am Struck With Sorrow. Take Him Up. Help, Three O' Th' Chiefest Soldiers; I'll Be One. Beat Thou The Drum, That It Speaks Mournfully, Trail Your Steel Spikes. Though In This City He Hath Widowed And Unchilded Many A One, Which To This Hour Bewail The Injury, Yet He Shall Have A Noble Memory. Assist.

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

That Which In Mean Men We Entitle Patience Is Pale Cold Cowardice In Noble Breasts.

Do You Bite Your Thumb At Us, Sir?