Our Praises Are Our Wages.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.

At This Hour Lie At My Mercy All Mine Enemies.

For To Be Wise And Love Exceeds Man's Might.

What Fates Impose, That Men Must Needs Abide; It Boots Not To Resist Both Wind And Tide.