Thyself Shall See The Act; For, As

I Have Seen The Day Of Wrong Through The Little Hole Of Discretion, And I Will Right Myself Like A Soldier.

How Many Cowards Whose Hearts Are All As False As Stairs Of Sand, Wear Yet Upon Their Chins The Beards Of Hercules And Frowning Mars, Who Inward Searched, Have Livers White As Milk!

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

Tis Beauty That Doth Oft Make Women Proud; But, God He Knows, Thy Share Thereof Is Small.

What Cannot Be Saved When Fate Takes, Patience Her Injury A Mockery Makes