The Eye Sees All, But

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

Like Madness, Is The Glory Of This Life.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

Therefore It Is Most Expedient For The Wise, If Don Worm (his Conscience) Find No Impediment To The Contrary, To Be The Trumpet Of His Own Virtues, As I Am To Myself.

Take All The Swift Advantage Of The Hours.