The Web Of Our Life Is Of

Yet Writers Say, As In The Sweetest Bud The Eating Canter Dwells, So Eating Love Inhabits In The Finest Wits Of All.

For I Have Sworn Thee Fair, And Thought Thee Bright, Who Art As Black As Hell, As Dark As Night.

I Do I Know Not What, And Fear To Find Mine Eye Too Great A Flatterer For My Mind. Fate, Show Thy Force. Ourselves We Do Not Owe. What Is Decreed Must Be; And Be This So.

A Scar Nobly Got Is A Good Livery Of Honor.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.