For I Am Proverbed With A Grandsire

You Have Lost No Reputation At All, Unless You Repute Yourself Such A Loser.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

One Touch Of Nature Makes The Whole World Kin.

Every Subject's Duty Is The King's; But Every Subject's Soul Is His Own. Therefore, Should Every Soldier In The Wars Do As Every Sick Man In His Bed, Wash Every Mote Out Of His Conscience; And Dying So, Death Is To Him Advantage; Or Not Dying, The Time Was Blessedly Lost Wherein Such Preparation Was Gained; And In Him That Escapes, It Were No Sin To Think That, Making God So Free An Offer, He Let Him Outlive The Day To See His Greatness And To Teach Others How They Should Prepare.

You Have But Mistook Me All The While... I Live By Bread Like You, Taste Grief, Feel Want, Need Friends. Conditioned Thus How Can You Call Me King?