All Hoods Make Not Monks.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

Plutus Himself, That Knows The Tinct And Multiplying Med'cine, Hath Not In Nature's Mystery More Science Than I Have In This Ring.

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.

Mine Eyes Are Full Of Tears, My Heart Of Grief.

O, I Have Suffered With Those That I Saw Suffer! A Brave Vessel (who Had No Doubt Some Noble Creature In Her) Dashed All To Pieces! O, The Cry Did Knock Against My Very Heart! Poor Souls, They Perished!