Hardness Ever Of Hardness Is Mother.

Things Are Often Spoke And Seldom Meant.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?

Now Would I Give A Thousand Furlongs Of Sea For An Acre Of Barren Ground.

Love Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.