Headstrong Liberty Is Lashed With Woe.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

One Touch Of Nature Makes The Whole World Kin.

If Ever Thou Shalt Love, In The Sweet Pangs Of It Remember Me; For Such As I Am All True Lovers Are, Unstaid And Skittish In All Motions Else Save In The Constant Image Of The Creature That Is Beloved.

How Use Doth Breed A Habit In A Man.

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run, That Our Devices Still Are Overthrown; Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own.