I'll Note You In My Book Of

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbled Shore, So Do Our Minutes Hasten To Their End; Each Changing Place With That Which Goes Before, In Sequent Toil All Forwards Do Contend.

When Heaven Doth Weep, Doth Not The Earth O'erflow? If The Winds Rage, Doth Not The Sea Wax Mad, Threatening The Welkin With His Big-swollen Face?

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.

We Are Not Ourselves When Nature, Being Oppressed, Commands The Mind To Suffer With The Body.