Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

A Good Man Will Avoid The Spot Of Any Sin. The Very Aspersion Is Grievous, Which Makes Him Choose His Way In His Life, As He Would In His Journey.

Thy Praise Or Dispraise Is To Me Alike; One Doth Not Stroke Me, Nor The Other Strike.

Soul Of The Age! The Applause, Delight, The Wonder Of Our Stage! My Shakespeare , Rise; I Will Not Lodge Thee By Chaucer Or Spenser , Or Bid Beaumont Lie A Little Further, To Make Thee A Room; Thou Art A Monument, Without A Tomb, And Art Alive Still, While Thy Book Doth Live, And We Have Wits To Read , And Praise To Give .

Passions Are Spiritual Rebels And Raise Sedition Against The Understanding.