He That Hath The Steerage Of My

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.

O, How Shall Summer's Honey Breath Hold Out Against The Wreckful Siege Of Battering Days, When Rocks Impregnable Are Not So Stout, Nor Gates Of Steel So Strong, But Time Decays?

O Madam, My Old Heart Is Cracked, It's Cracked!

You Are Made Rather To Wonder At The Things You Hear Than To Work Any.

Ay, Much Is The Force Of Heaven-bred Poesy.