Nor For My Peace Will I Go

Words Borrowed Of Antiquity Do Lend A Kind Of Majesty To Style, And Are Not Without Their Delight Sometimes. For They Have The Authority Of Years, And Out Of Their Intermission Do Win To Themselves A Kind Of Grace-like Newness. But The Eldest Of The Present, And Newest Of The Past Language, Is The Best.

Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out Of Countenance Out Of Wit.

Whom Hatred Frights, Let Him Not Dream Of Sovereignty.

I Have No Urns, No Dusty Monuments; No Broken Images Of Ancestors, Wanting An Ear, Or Nose; No Forged Tales Of Long Descents, To Boast False Honors From.

It Strikes! One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. Enough, Enough, Dear Watch, Thy Pulse Hath Beat Enough. Now Sleep And Rest; Would Thou Could'st Make The Time To Do So Too; I'll Wind Thee Up No More.