A Cup Of Hot Wine With Not

For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lillies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

He Is Well Paid That Is Well Satisfied.

I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Now 'tis Spring, And Weeds Are Shallow-rooted; Suffer Them Now And They'll O'ergrow The Garden.

The Instruments Of Darkness Tell Us Truths.