I Am Ill At These Numbers.

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get. I To The World Am Like A Drop Of Water That In The Ocean Seeks Another Drop, Who, Falling There To Find His Fellow Forth, Unseen, Inquisitive, Confounds Himself: So I, To Find A Mother And A Brother, In Quest Of Them, Unhappy, Lose Myself.

O God, O God, How Weary, Stale, Flat, And Unprofitable Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World!

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting On Superfluous Folly.

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.