He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb,

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty Shadows.

Lords, Knights And Gentlemen, What I Should Say My Tears Gainsay; For Every Word I Speak, Ye See I Drink The Water Of My Eye.

Short Summers Lightly Have A Forward Spring.

Good Fortune Then! To Make Me Blest Or Cursed'st Among Men.