Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

Nature, The Vicar Of The Almighty Lord.

For Of Fortunes Sharp Adversitee The Worst Kynde Of Infortune Is This, A Man To Han Ben In Prosperitee, And It Remembren, Whan It Passed Is.

Thou Shalt Make Castels Thanne In Spayne And Dreme Of Joye, All But In Vayne.

Felds Hath Eyen, And Wode Have Eres.

The Life So Brief, The Art So Long In The Learning, The Attempt So Hard, The Conquest So Sharp, The Fearful Joy That Ever Slips Away So Quickly - By All This I Mean Love, Which So Sorely Astounds My Feeling With Its Wondrous Operation, That When I Think Upon It I Scarce Know Whether I Wake Or Sleep.