And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

The power of Kings and Magistrates is nothing else, but what is only derivative, transferrd and committed to them in trust from the People, to the Common good of them all, in whom the power yet remaines fundamentally, and cannot be takn from them, without a violation of thir natural birthright.

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

Our country is where ever we are well off.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

Only this I know, That one celestial father gives to all.