O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells

The Crown O' The Earth Doth Melt. My Lord! O, Wither'd Is The Garland Of The War, The Soldier's Pole Is Fall'n: Young Boys And Girls Are Level Now With Men; The Odds Is Gone, And There Is Nothing Left Remarkable Beneath The Visiting Moon.

The Rarer Action Is In Virtue Than In Vengeance.

Coward Dogs Most Spend Their Mouths When What They Seem To Threaten Runs Far Before Them.

Bondage Is Hoarse, And May Not Speak Aloud.

Love Is Not Love Which Alters When It Alteration Finds, Or Bends With The Remover To Remove. O, No! It Is An Ever-fixed Mark, That Looks On Tempests And Is Never Shaken. It Is The Star To Every Wandering Bark, Whose Worth's Unknown, Although His Height Be Taken.