None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.

Whatever Praises Itself But In The Deed, Devours The Deed In The Praise.

O, Had I But Followed The Arts!

Diseases Desperate Grown By Desperate Appliances Are Relieved, Or Not At All.

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.