Ingratitude Is Monstrous.

Absence From Those We Love Is Self From Self - A Deadly Banishment.

I Do I Know Not What, And Fear To Find Mine Eye Too Great A Flatterer For My Mind. Fate, Show Thy Force. Ourselves We Do Not Owe. What Is Decreed Must Be; And Be This So.

For I Am Proverbed With A Grandsire Phrase.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

For There Was Never Yet Philosoper That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently, However They Have Writ The Style Of Gods, And Made A Push At Chance And Sufferance.