Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious

The Poorest Service Is Repaid With Thanks.

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.

Where Shall We Three Meet Again In Thunder, Lightning, Or In Rain? When The Hurlyburly 's Done, When The Battle 's Lost And Won

There Is No More Mercy In Him Than There Is Milk In A Male Tiger.

By Jove, I Am Not Covetous For Gold, Nor Care I Who Doth Feed Upon My Cost; It Yearns Me Not If Me My Garments Wear; Such Outward Things Dwell Not In My Desires: But If It Be A Sin To Covet Honor, I Am The Most Offending Soul Alive.