Most Subject Is The Fattest Soil To

Wisdom Cries Out In The Streets, And No Man Regards It.

Men At Sometime Are The Masters Of Their Fate.

I Am Too Old To Fawn Upon A Nurse, Too Far In Years To Be A Pupil Now.

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together: Our Virtues Would Be Proud If Our Faults Whipped Them Not; And Our Crimes Would Despair If They Were Not Cherished By Our Own Virtues.