You Blocks, You Stones, You Worse Than

Wolves And Bears, They Say, Casting Their Savagery Aside, Have Done Like Offices Of Pity.

Neither My Place, Nor Aught I Heard Of Business, Hath Raised Me From My Bed; Nor Doth The General Care Take Hold On Me; For My Particular Grief Is Of So Floodgate And O'erbearing Nature That It Engluts And Swallows Other Sorrows, And It Is Still Itself.

The Old Folk, Time's Doting Chronicles.

Violent Fires Soon Burn Out Themselves, Small Showers Last Long, But Sudden Storms Are Short; He Tires Betimes That Spurs Too Fast.

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.