You Are Not Wood, You Are Not

You Shall More Command With Years Than With Your Weapons.

Simply The Thing That I Am Shall Make Me Live.

This Thought Is As A Death.

If Thou Couldst, Doctor, Cast The Water Of My Land, Find Her Disease, And Purge It To A Sound And Pristine Health, I Would Applaud Thee To The Very Echo, That Should Applaud You Again.

I Am But Mad North-north-west. When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw.