Our Praises Are Our Wages.

I Have Almost Forgotten The Taste Of Fears: The Time Has Been, My Senses Would Have Cool’d To Hear A Night-shriek; And My Fell Of Hair Would At A Dismal Treatise Rouse And Stir As Life Were In’t: I Have Supt Full With Horrors; Direness, Familiar To My Slaughterous Thoughts, Cannot Once Start Me.

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.

Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

No, No, I Am But Shadow Of Myself: You Are Deceived, My Substance Is Not Here.