A Little Water Clears Us Of This

So May He Rest, His Faults Lie Gently On Him!

I Prithee Gentle Friend, Let Thy Fair Wisdom, Not Thy Passions, Sway In This Uncivil And Unjust Extent Against Thy Peace.

There Is Not One Wise Man In Twenty That Will Praise Himself.

Either To Die The Death Or To Abjure For Ever The Society Of Men. Therefore, Fair Hermia, Question Your Desires; Know Of Your Youth, Examine Well Your Blood, Whether, If You Yield Not To Your Father's Choice, You Can Endure The Livery Of A Nun, For Aye To Be In Shady Cloister Mew'd, To Live A Barren Sister All Your Life, Chanting Faint Hymns To The Cold Fruitless Moon. Thrice-blessed They That Master So Their Blood, To Undergo Such Maiden Pilgrimage; But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd, Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives And Dies In Single Blessedness.

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding.