Let Those That Play Your

Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your Brain.

What Wouldst Thou Do, Old Man? Think'st Thou That Duty Shall Have Dread To Speak When Power To Flattery Bows?

The Heavens Themselves, The Planets, And This Centre Observe Degree, Priority, And Place, Insisture, Course, Proportion, Season, Form, Office, And Custom, In All Line Of Order.

Thy Words, I Grant Are Bigger, For I Wear Not, My Dagger In My Mouth.

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.