Ay Me! Sad Hours Seem Long.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

Have More Than Thou Showest, Speak Less Than Thou Knowest, Lend Less Than Thou Owest.

My Age Is As A Lusty Winter, Frosty But Kindly.

Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.