Fat Paunches Have Lean Pates, And Dainty

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.

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.

Spirits Are Not Finely Touched But To Fine Issues.

I Must To The Barber's, Monsieur, For Methinks I Am Marvellous Hairy About The Face.

Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!