My Thoughts Are Whirled Like A Potter's

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension.

Hal, If I Tell Thee A Lie, Spit In My Face, Call Me Horse.

O, How Shall Summer's Honey Breath Hold Out Against The Wreckful Siege Of Battering Days, When Rocks Impregnable Are Not So Stout, Nor Gates Of Steel So Strong, But Time Decays?

Ingratitude Is Monstrous; And For The Multitude To Be Ingrateful Were To Make A Monster Of The Multitude; Of Which We Being Members, Should Bring Ourselves To Be Monstrous Members.

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.