Keep Up Your Bright Swords, For The

Full Oft We See Cold Wisdom Waiting On Superfluous Folly.

Against Self-slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.

Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire; Doubt That The Sun Doth Move; Doubt Truth To Be A Liar; But Never Doubt I Love.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.

Make Less Thy Body Hence, And More Thy Grace. Leave Gormandizing.