I Durst Not Laugh For

You Know Who You Are, But Know Not Who You Could Be.

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

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.

My Salad Days, When I Was Green In Judgment.