He Thinks Too Much. Such Men Are

Time ... Thou Ceaseless Lackey To Eternity.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Ears; I Come To Bury Caesar, Not To Praise Him.

What Seest Thou Else In The Dark Backward And Abysm Of Time?

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.