For My Part, I Have Ever Believed,

Sleep Is A Death, O Make Me Try By Sleeping, What It Is To Die, And As Gently Lay My Head On My Grave, As Now My Bed.

The Vices We Scoff At In Others Laugh At Us Within Ourselves.

Forcible Ways Make Not An End Of Evil, But Leave Hatred And Malice Behind Them.

For The World, I Count It Not An Inn, But A Hospital; And A Place Not To Live, But To Die In.

Praise Is A Debt We Owe Unto The Virtue Of Others, And Due Unto Our Own From All Whom Malice Hath Not Made Mutes, Or Envy Struck Dumb.