Why, This Hath Not A

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It Will Feed My Revenge.

Hang Him, Swaggering Rascal!

Press Not A Falling Man Too Far; 'tis Virtue: His Faults Lie Open To The Laws; Let Them, Not You, Correct Him.

Think, When We Talk Of Horses, That You See Them Printing Their Proud Hoofs I' The Receiving Earth.