The Truth, The Hope Of Any Time,

For This Present, Hard Is The Fortune Of The Bard, Born Out Of Time; All His Accomplishment, From Nature's Utmost Treasure Spent, Booteth Not Him.

Cities Give Us Collision. 'tis Said, London And New York Take The Nonsense Out Of A Man.

But I Shall Hear Without Pain, That I Play The Courtier Very Ill, And Talk Of That Which I Do Not Well Understand.

The Street Is Full Of Humiliations To The Proud.

The Moment We Indulge Our Affections, The Earth Is Metamorphosed.