It Is A Wise Father That Knows

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

Go Wisely And Slowly. Those Who Rush Stumble And Fall.

An Arrant Traitor As Any Is In The Universal World, Or In France, Or In England.