Home-keeping Youth Have Ever Homely Wits.

The Poor World Is Almost Six Thousand Years Old, And In All This Time There Was Not Any Man Died In His Own Person, Videlicet, In A Love-cause.

My Wits Begin To Turn.

If The Skin Were Parchment And The Blows You Gave Were Ink, Your Own Handwriting Would Tell You What I Think.

We Cannot All Be Masters, Nor All Masters Cannot Be Truly Followed.

Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When It Will Come