What Fates Impose, That Men Must Needs

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

Through Tattered Clothes Great Vices Do Appear; Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All. Plate Sin With Gold And The Strong Lance Of Justice Hurtless Breaks. Arm It In Rags, A Pigmy's Straw Does Pierce It.

My Heart Is Ever At Your Service.

Pleasure And Action Make The Hours Seem Short.

For In My Youth I Never Did Apply Hot And Rebellious Liquors In My Blood.