Words Spoken Can Not Be Recalled So

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

The Horn, The Horn, The Lusty Horn Is Not A Thing To Laugh To Scorn.

A Sympathy In Choice.

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!

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.