Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

Oft Have I Heard That Grief Softens The Mind And Makes It Fearful And Degenerate.

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.

What's Past And What's To Come Is Strew'd With Husks And Formless Ruin Of Oblivion.