Sick In The World's Regard, Wretched And

Thy Wish Was Father, Harry, To That Thought.

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.

Princes Have But Their Titles For Their Glories, An Outward Honor For An Inward Toil; And, For Unfelt Imaginations, They Often Feel A World Of Restless Cares.

Thou Art The Mars Of Malcontents.

Though This Be Madness, Yet There Is Method In't.