Cupid Is A Knavish Lad, Thus To

There's Many A Man Hath More Hair Than Wit.

Misery Acquaints A Man With Strange Bedfellows.

Rightly To Be Great Is Not To Stir Without Great Argument, But Greatly To Find Quarrel In A Straw When Honour's At The Stake.

If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness, Did Lay Siege To It, Making It Momentary As A Sound, Swift As A Shadow, Short As Any Dream, Brief As The Lightning In The Collied Night That, In A Spleen, Unfolds Both Heaven And Earth, And Ere A Man Hath Power To Say 'behold!' The Jaws Of Darkness Do Devour It Up; So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.

There Is No More Mercy In Him Than There Is Milk In A Male Tiger.