Good Men But See Death, The Wicked

Who Will Not Judge Him Worthy To Be Robbed That Sets His Doors Wide Open To A Thief, And Shows The Felon Where His Treasure Lies?

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

True Gladness Doth Not Always Speak; Joy, Bred And Born But In The Tongue, Is Weak.

Truth Is Man's Proper Good, And The Only Immortal Thing Was Given To Our Mortality To Use.

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.