Time And The Hour Run Through The

Delay Leads Impotent And Snail-paced Beggary.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

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

Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But The Finest Part Of Pure Love