Dispute Not With Her: She Is Lunatic.

And Caesar Shall Go Forth.

Ring The Alarum-bell! Blow, Wind! Come, Wrack! At Least We'll Die With Harness On Our Back.

Thyself And Thy Belongings Are Not Thine Own So Proper, As To Waste Thyself Upon Thy Virtues, They On Thee. Heaven Doth With Us As We With Torches Do, Not Light Them For Themselves; For If Our Virtues Did Not Go Forth Of Us 't Were All Alike As If We Had Them Not. Spirits Are Not Finely Touch'd But To Fine Issues; Nor Nature Never Lends The Smallest Scruple Of Her Excellence, But, Like A Thrifty Goddess, She Determines Herself The Glory Of A Creditor - Both Thanks And Use.

What Is Light, If Sylvia Be Not Seen? What Is Joy If Sylvia Be Not By?

The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows Make.