Time Is The King Of Men.

If Our Virtues Did Not Go Forth Of Us, It Were All Alike As If We Had Them Not.

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.

All Impediments In Fancy's Course Are Motives Of More Fancy.

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

For Now I Stand As One Upon A Rock Environed With A Wilderness Of Sea, Who Marks The Waxing Tide Grow Wave By Wave, Expecting Ever When Some Envious Surge Will In His Brinish Bowels Swallow Him.