Ill can he rule the great that cannot reach the small.

Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?

The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.

The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.

Then came October, full of merry glee.

For whatsoever from one place doth fall, Is with the tide unto an other brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Fly from wrath; sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war; a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.