You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Within The Book And Volume Of Thy Brain.

For To Define True Madness, What Is't But To Be Nothing Else But Mad?

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

We Will Draw The Curtain And Show You The Picture.

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!