This Passion, And The Death Of A

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me? Young Son, It Argues A Distemper'd Head So Soon To Bid Good Morrow To Thy Bed: Care Keeps His Watch In Every Old Man's Eye, And Where Care Lodges, Sleep Will Never Lie; But Where Unbruised Youth With Unstuff'd Brain Doth Couch His Limbs, There Golden Sleep Doth Reign.

To Hold, As 't Were, The Mirror Up To Nature.

Boldness Be My Friend.

We Were Not Born To Sue, But To Command.

My Life, My Joy, My Food, My Ail The World!