Nothing Routs Us But The Villainy Of

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

What Cannot Be Saved When Fate Takes, Patience Her Injury A Mockery Makes

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.

Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention.

Well Could He Ride, And Often Men Would Say, "that Horse His Mettle From His Rider Takes: Proud Of Subjection, Noble By The Sway, What Rounds, What Bounds, What Course, What Stop He Makes!" And Controversy Hence A Question Takes, Whether The Horse By Him Became His Deed, Or He His Manage By The Well-doing Steed.