Still May Syllables Jar With Time, Still

Reader Look, Not On His Picture But His Book.

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome

There Is No Greater Hell Than To Be A Prisoner Of Fear.

Opinion Is A Light, Vain, Crude, And Imperfect Thing.

Doing, A Filthy Pleasure Is, And Short; And Done, We Straight Repent Us Of The Sport: Let Us Not Rush Blindly On Unto It, Like Lustful Beasts, That Only Know To Do It: For Lust Will Languish, And That Heat Decay, But Thus, Thus, Keeping Endless Holy-.