You Blocks, You Stones, You Worse Than

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?

He Is The Most Wretched Of Men Who Has Never Felt Adversity.

One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning, One Pain Is Lessen'd By Another's Anguish.