I Would Give All Of My Fame

Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, And Years, Pass'd Over To The End They Were Created, Would Bring White Hairs Unto A Quiet Grave. Ah, What A Life Were This!

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

Gently To Hear, Kindly To Judge.

This Day I Breathed First: Time Is Come Round, And Where I Did Begin There Shall I End; My Life Is Run His Compass.

Suspicion Always Haunts The Guilty Mind.