A Good Wit Will Make Use Of

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

Too Much To Know Is To Know Naught But Fame.

I Had Rather Be A Kitten, And Cry Mew, Than One Of These Same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I Had Rather Heare A Brazen Candlestick Turn'd, Or A Dry Wheele Grate On The Axle-tree, And That Would Set My Teeth Nothing An Edge, Nothing So Much, As Mincing Poetrie.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

No Villainous Bounty Yet Hath Passed My Heart; Unwisely, Not Ignobly, Have I Given.