O, The Blood More Stirs To Rouse

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

Not From The Stars Do I My Judgement Pluck, And Yet Methinks I Have Astronomy. But Not To Tell Of Good Or Evil Luck, Of Plagues, Of Dearths, Or Season's Quality; Nor Can I Fortune To Brief Minutes Tell ... Or Say With Princes If It Shall Go Well.

Can It Be That Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness? Having Waste Ground Enough, Shall We Desire To Raze The Sanctuary And Pitch Our Evils There?

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?

Patience Is Sottish, And Impatience Does Become A Dog That's Mad.