Ross You Must Have Patience, Madam. Lady

In Peace There's Nothing So Becomes A Man As Modest Stillness And Humility: But When The Blast Of War Blows In Our Ears, Then Imitate The Action Of The Tiger; Stiffen The Sinews, Summon Up The Blood, Disguise Fair Nature With Hard-favour'd Rage; Then Lend The Eye A Terrible Aspect; . . . . Now Set The Teeth And Stretch The Nostril Wide, Hold Hard The Breath And Bend Up Every Spirit To His Full Height. On, On, You Noblest English.

Ay, Is It Not A Language I Speak?

Sick In The World's Regard, Wretched And Low.

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

Misery Makes Sport To Mock Itself.