All Thy Vexations Were But My Trials

She Cannot Love, Nor Take No Shape Nor Project Or Affection, She Is So Self-endeared

Doubting Things Go Ill Often Hurts More Than To Be Sure They Do; For Certainties Either Are Past Remedies, Or, Timely Knowing, The Remedy Then Born.

There Lives Within The Very Flame Of Love A Kind Of Wick Or Snuff That Will Abate It.

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.

Gloucester: Yet So Much Is My Poverty Of Spirit, So Mighty And So Many My Defects, As I Had Rather Hide Me From My Greatness, Being A Bark To Brook No Mighty Sea, Than In My Greatness Covet To Be Hid, And In The Vapour Of My Glory Smother'd. But God Be Thanked. . . .