To Loathe The Taste Of Sweetness, Whereof

I Am In Blood Stepp'd In So Far, That, Should I Wade No More, Returning Were As Tedious As Go O'er.

Give Every Man Thine Ear, But Few Thy Voice; Take Each Man's Censure, But Reserve Thy Judgment.

Is It Possible He Should Know What He Is, And Be That He Is?

In Winter's Tedious Nights Sit By The Fire With Good Old Folks, And Let Them Tell Thee Tales Of Woeful Ages, Long Ago Betid

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.