There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
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.
Art made tongue-tied by authority.
The rest, is silence.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.