Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention.

The Color Of The King Doth Come And Go, Between His Purpose And His Conscience, Like Heralds 'twixt Two Dreadful Battles Set: His Passion Is So Ripe, It Needs Must Break.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

Be Checked For Silence, But Never Taxed For Speech.

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe

Some There Be That Shadows Kiss; Such Have But A Shadow's Bliss.