Time And The Hour Run Through The

If After Every Tempest Come Such Calms, May The Winds Blow Till They Have Waken'd Death!

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

And This, Our Life, Exempt From Public Haunt, Finds Tongues In Trees, Books In The Running Brooks, Sermons In Stones, And Good In Everything.

For Brutus Is An Honourable Man; So Are They All, All Honourable Men.

In Time We Hate That Which We Often Fear.