In Nature's Infinite Book Of Secrecy A

Time Goes On Crutches Till Love Have All His Rites.

Nothing Routs Us But The Villainy Of Our Fears.

Be Just, And Fear Not.

And Oftentimes, To Win Us To Our Harm, The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths, Win Us With Honest Trifles, To Betray's In Deepest Consequence

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.