I See Men's Judgments Are A Parcel

The Empty Vessel Makes The Loudest Sound.

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

For Brutus Is An Honourable Man; So Are They All, All Honourable Men.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

What Freezings I Have Felt, What Dark Days Seen, What Old December's Bareness Everywhere!