What E'er Thou Art, Act

The Man That Hath No Music In Himself

Look On Beauty, And You Shall See 'tis Purchased By The Weight.

Blest Are Those Whose Blood And Judgment Are So Well Commingled, That They Are Not A Pipe For Fortune's Finger To Sound What Stop She Please.

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !

A Poor Thing, Perhaps, But My Own.