Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?
Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.