A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear

It Is A Good Divine That Follows His Own Instructions.

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

O Polished Perturbation! Golden Care! That Keep'st The Ports Of Slumber Open Wide To Many A Watchful Night.

After Your Death You Were Better Have A Bad Epitaph Than Their Ill Report While You Live.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.