Thy Words, I Grant Are Bigger, For

Live How We Can, Yet Die We Must.

Great Men May Jest With Saints; 'tis Wit In Them; But, In The Less Foul Profanation.

I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.

Myself--a Prince By Fortune Of My Birth, Near To The King In Blood, And Near In Love Till You Did Make Him Misinterpret Me-- Have Stooped My Neck Under Your Injuries And Sighed My English Breath In Foreign Clouds, Eating The Bitter Bread Of Banishment, Whilst You Have Fed Upon My Signories, Disparked My Parks And Felled My Forest Woods, From My Own Windows Torn My Household Coat, Rased Out My Imprese, Leaving Me No Sign, Save Men's Opinions And My Living Blood, To Show The World I Am A Gentleman.

My Heart Laments That Virtue Cannot Live Out Of The Teeth Of Emulation.