I Am Ill At These Numbers.

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get. I To The World Am Like A Drop Of Water That In The Ocean Seeks Another Drop, Who, Falling There To Find His Fellow Forth, Unseen, Inquisitive, Confounds Himself: So I, To Find A Mother And A Brother, In Quest Of Them, Unhappy, Lose Myself.

Like One Who Draws The Model Of A House Beyond His Power To Build It Who, Half Through, Gives O'er, And Leaves His Part-created Cost A Naked Subject To The Weeping Clouds.

Let Us, Like Merchants, Show Our Foulest Wares, And Think Perchance They'll Sell; If Not, The Lustre Of The Better Yet To Show Shall Show The Better.

The Tyrant Custom, Most Grave Senators, Hath Made The Flinty And Steel Couch Of War My Thrice-driven Bed Of Down.