'tis Pride That Pulls The Country Down.

Thou Shouldst Not Have Been Old Till Thou Hadst Been Wise.

Do Not For One Repulse, Forego The Purpose That You Resolved To Effect.

Alack, The Night Comes On, And The Bleak Winds Do Sorely Ruffle; For Many Miles About There's Scarce A Bush.

How Many Cowards Whose Hearts Are All As False As Stairs Of Sand, Wear Yet Upon Their Chins The Beards Of Hercules And Frowning Mars, Who Inward Searched, Have Livers White As Milk!

Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes The Night Morning, And The Noontide Night.