In Limited Professions There's Boundless Theft.

I Can Hardly Forbear Hurling Things At Him.

There Is None But He Whose Being I Do Fear; And Under Him My Genius Is Rebuked, As It Is Said Mark Antony's Was By Caesar.

I Am A Jew. Hath Not A Jew Eyes? Hath Not A Jew Hands, Organs, Dimensions, Senses, Affections, Passions?

I Am Disgraced, Impeached, And Baffled Here, Pierced To The Soul With Slander's Venomed Spear.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.