How Every Fool Can Play

The Thing Of Courage As Rous'd With Rage Doth Sympathise, And, With An Accent Tun'd In Self-same Key, Retorts To Chiding Fortune.

Men From Children Nothing Differ.

Fie, Fie Upon Her! There's Language In Her Eye, Her Cheek, Her Lip, Nay, Her Foot Speaks; Her Wanton Spirits Look Out At Every Joint And Motive Of Her Body.

Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With Golden Wings, Melts Them.

The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up My Life; Here Must I Stay, And Here My Life Must End.