'tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile

As True As Steel, As Plantage To The Moon, As Sun To Day, At Turtle To Her Mate, As Iron To Adamant, As Earth To Centre.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry.

There Is A Law In Each Well-ordered Nation To Curb Those Raging Appetites That Are Most Disobedient And Refractory.

I Shall Show The Cinders Of My Spirits Through The Ashes Of My Chance.