None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing

Set We Forward; Let A Roman And A British Ensign Wave Friendly Together. So Through Lud's Town March, And In The Temple Of The Great Jupiter Our Peace We'll Ratify, Seal It With Feasts. Set On There! Never Was A War Did Cease, Ere Bloody Hands Were Washed, With Such A Peace.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your Brain.

I Am A Kind Of Burr; I Shall Stick.

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.