Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield,

I Have Neither The Scholar's Melancholy, Which Is Emulation; Nor The Musician's, Which Is Fantastical; Nor The Courtier's, Which Is Proud; Not The Soldier's Which Is Ambitious; Nor The Lawyer's, Which Is Politic; Nor The Lady's, Which Is Nice; Nor The Lover's, Which Is All These: But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In A Most Humorous Sadness.

Vile Worm, Thou Wast O'erlook'd Even In Thy Birth.

Can We Outrun The Heavens?

So Doth The Greater Glory Dim The Less: A Substitute Shines Brightly As A King Until A King Be By.

Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious Thing.