You Are Not Wood, You Are Not

I Will Live In Thy Heart, Die In Thy Lap, And Be Buried In Thy Eyes—and Moreover, I Will Go With Thee To Thy Uncle’s.

Though Authority Be A Stubborn Bear, Yet He Is Oft Let By The Nose With Gold.

Avaunt, You Cullions!

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

To This Urn Let Those Repair That Are Either True Or Fair; For These Dead Birds Sigh A Prayer.