O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To

Wherefore Was I To This Keen Mockery Born? When At Your Hands Did I Deserve This Scorn? Is't Not Enough, Is't Not Enough, Young Man, That I Did Never, No, Nor Never Can, Deserve A Sweet Look From Demetrius' Eye, But You Must Flout My Insufficiency?

O! That A Man Might Know The End Of This Day's Business, Ere It Come; But It Sufficeth That The Day Will End, And Then The End Is Known.

I Am A Kind Of Burr; I Shall Stick.

Did He So Often Lodge In Open Field, In Winter's Cold And Summer's Parching Heat, To Conquer France, His True Inheritance?

But As The Unthought-on Accident Is Guilty To What We Wildly Do, So We Profess Ourselves To Be The Slaves Of Chance, And Flies Of Every Wind That Blows.