Our Whole Life Is Like A Play.

... The Best Pilots Have Need Of Mariners, Besides Sails, Anchor And Other Tackle.

That Old Bald Cheater, Time.

If Men Will Impartially, And Not Asquint, Look Toward The Offices And Function Of A Poet, They Will Easily Conclude To Themselves The Impossibility Of Any Man's Being A Good Poet Without First Being A Good Man.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

Well, I Will Scourge Those Apes, And To These Courteous Eyes Oppose A Mirror, As Large As Is The Stage Whereon We Act; Where They Shall See The Time's Deformity Anatomised In Every Nerve, And Sinew, With Constant Courage, And Contempt Of Fear.