In Thy Youth Wast As

Defer No Time, Delays Have Dangerous Ends.

In Sooth I Know Not Why I Am So Sad. It Wearies Me, You Say It Wearies You; But How I Caught It, Found It, Or Came By It, What Stuff 'tis Made Of, Whereof It Is Born, I Am To Learn.

Temptation Is The Fire That Brings Up The Scum Of The Heart.

Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens, To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners: So That If We Will Plant Nettles, Or Sow Lettuce, Set Hyssop And Weed Up Tine, Supply It With One Gender Of Herbs, Or Distract It With Many, Either To Have It Sterile With Idleness, Or Manured With Industry, Why, The Power And Corrigible Authority Of This Lies In Our Wills.