Be Not Afeard; The Isle Is Full

O Heaven! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times.

To Think But Nobly Of My Grandmother: Good Wombs Have Borne Bad Sons.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

How Wayward Is This Foolish Love That, Like A Testy Babe, Will Scratch The Nurse And Presently, All Humble, Kiss The Rod.

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.