Evermore Thanks, The Exchequer Of The Poor

Omission To Do What Is Necessary Seals A Commission To A Blank Of Danger; And Danger, Like An Ague, Subtly Taints Even Then When We Sit Idly In The Sun.

It Is Not In The Stars To Hold Our Destiny But In Ourselves.

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

Past And To Come, Seems Best; Things Present, Worse.

Now Get You To My Lady's Chamber, And Tell Her, Let Her Paint An Inch Thick, To This Favour She Must Come; Make Her Laugh At That.