In Brief, Sir, Study What You Most

My Endeavors Have Ever Come Too Short Of My Desires. Yet Filed With My Abilities.

Methinks You Are My Glass, And Not My Brother: I See By You I Am A Sweet-faced Youth.

I Care Not, A Man Can Die But Once; We Owe God And Death.

A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In Anger.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.