Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death

For Naught So Vile That On The Earth Doth Live But To The Earth Some Special Good Doth Give.

Perseverance, My Dear Lord. Keeps Honour Bright.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

Take Physic, Pomp; Expose Thyself To Feel What Wretches Feel, That Thou Mayst Shake The Superflux To Them And Show The Heavens More Just.

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.