Let Every Man Be Master Of His

Is It Not Strange That Desire Should So Many Years Outlive Performance?

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

Can I Go Forward When My Heart Is Here?

The Mind Of Guilt Is Full Of Scorpions.

Weariness Can Snore Upon The Flint When Resting Sloth Finds The Down Pillow Hard.