There Is Not One Wise Man In

The Blood Weeps From My Heart When I Do Shape, In Forms Imaginary, Th' Unguided Days And Rotten Times That You Shall Look Upon When I Am Sleeping With My Ancestors.

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

Either Our History Shall With Full Mouth Speak Freely Of Our Acts, Or Else Our Grave, Like Turkish Mute, Shall Have A Tongueless Mouth, Not Worshipped With A Waxen Epitaph.