You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

I Do Oppose My Patience To His Fury, And Am Arm'd To Suffer, With A Quietness Of Spirit, The Very Tyranny And Rage Of His.

Help, Master, Help! Here's A Fish Hangs In The Net, Like A Poor Man's Right In The Law; 'twill Hardly Come Out.

Thou Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Lov'd, Despis'd! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon.

Affection Is A Coal That Must Be Cooled; Else, Suffered, It Will Set The Heart On Fire.