A Kind Of Excellent Dumb Discourse.

Rumour Doth Double, Like The Voice And Echo, The Numbers Of The Feared.

There's Place And Means For Every Man Alive.

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

What My Tongue Dares Not That My Heart Shall Say

The Painful Warrior Famous For Fight, After A Thousand Victories, Once Foil'd, Is From The Books Of Honor Razed Quite, And All The Rest Forgot For Which He Toil'd