Mine Eyes Smell Onions: I Shall Weep

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

So. Lie There, My Art.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

The Voice Of Parents Is The Voice Of Gods, For To Their Children They Are Heaven's Lieutenants.

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?