I Dote On His Very Absence.

A Good Old Man, Sir. He Will Be Talking. As They Say, When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out.

The Truest Poetry Is The Most Feigning.

If I Lose My Honor, I Lose Myself: Better I Were Not Yours Than Yours So Branchless.

Bid The Dishonest Man Mend Himself; If He Mend, He Is No Longer Dishonest.

Sigh No More Ladies, Sigh No More, Men Were Deceivers Ever