Let Me Be Ignorant, And In Nothing

That Is Honor's Scorn Which Challenges Itself As Honor's Born And Is Not Like The Sire. Honors Thrive When Rather From Our Acts We Them Derive Than Our Foregoers.

The Moon's An Arrant Thief, And Her Pale Fire She Snatches From The Sun.

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head.

O Gentlemen, The Time Of Life Is Short! To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long, If Life Did Ride Upon A Dial's Point, Still Ending At The Arrival Of An Hour.