I Drink To The General

But There Is No Such Man; For, Brother, Men Can Counsel And Speak Comfort To That Grief Which They Themselves Not Feel; But, Tasting It, Their Counsel Turns To Passion, Which Before Would Give Preceptial Medicine To Rage, Fetter Strong Madness In A Silken Thread, Charm Ache With Air And Agony With Words.

Patience Is Sottish, And Impatience Does Become A Dog That's Mad.

Coward Dogs Most Spend Their Mouths When What They Seem To Threaten Runs Far Before Them.

Last Scene Of All That Ends This Strange, Eventful History, Is Second Childishness And Mere Oblivion. I Am Sans Teeth, Sans Eyes, Sans Taste, Sans Everything.

This We Prescribe, Though No Physician; Deep Malice Makes Too Deep Incision; Forget, Forgive; Conclude And Be Agreed; Our Doctors Say This Is No Month To Bleed.