There Is Throats To Be Cut, And

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

A Thousand Moral Paintings I Can Show That Shall Demonstrate These Quick Blows Of Fortune's More Pregnantly Than Words.

Though Justice Be Thy Plea Consider This, That In The Course Of Justice None Of Us Should See Salvation.

It Is The Stars, The Stars Above Us, Govern Our Conditions.

Winding Up Days With Toil And Nights With Sleep.