So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.​​​​​​

Corruption Wins Not More Than Honesty. Still In Thy Right Hand Carry Gentle Peace, To Silence Envious Tongues.

Old Fashions Please Me Best; I Am Not So Nice To Change True Rules For Odd Inventions.

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.