Let Me Be That I Am And

When You Depart From Me Sorrow Abides And Happiness Takes His Leave.

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

Ne'er Ask Me What Raiment I'll Wear, For I Have No More Doublets Than Backs, No More Stockings Than Legs, Nor No More Shoes Than Feet--nay, Sometime More Feet Than Shoes, Or Such Shoes As My Toes Look Through The Overleather.

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

There Is A History In All Men's Lives, Figuring The Nature Of The Times Deceased, The Which Observed, A Man May Prophesy, With A Near Aim, Of The Main Chance Of Things As Yet Not Come To Life, Which In Their Seeds And Weak Beginnings Lie Intreasured.