Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

The Breaking Of So Great A Thing Should Make A Greater Crack: The Round World Should Have Shook Lions Into Civil Streets, And Citizens To Their Dens.

Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting On Superfluous Folly.

Mine Honour Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honour From Me, And My Life Is Done.

So Shaken As We Are, So Wan With Care, Find We A Time For Frighted Peace To Pant And Breathe Short-winded Accents Of New Broils To Be Commenced In Stronds Afar Remote.