I Cannot, Nor I Will

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

Besides, They Are Our Outward Consciences, And Preachers To Us All, Admonishing That We Should Drew Us Fairly For Our End.

He Hath Not Eat Paper, As It Were; He Hath Not Drunk Ink; His Intellect Is Not Replenished; He Is Only An Animal, Only Sensible In The Duller Parts. (shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, Iv)

The Labor We Delight In Physics [cures] Pain.