I Have Full Cause Of Weeping, But

A Fool Thinks Himself To Be Wise, But A Wise Man Knows Himself To Be A Fool.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

No Matter Where; Of Comfort No Man Speak: Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth

O! For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention.