Death, A Necessary End, Will

Venus Smiles Not In A House Of Tears.

Were I The Moor I Would Not Be Iago. In Following Him I Follow But Myself; Heaven Is My Judge, Not I For Love And Duty, But Seeming So For My Peculiar End. For When My Outward Action Doth Demonstrate The Native Act And Figure Of My Heart In Compliment Extern, ’tis Not Long After But I Will Wear My Heart Upon My Sleeve For Daws To Peck At. I Am Not What I Am

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

Why, Universal Plodding Poisons Up The Nimble Spirits In The Arteries, As Motion And Long-during Action Tires The Sinewy Vigor Of The Traveller.

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.