If You Spend Word For Word With

Patch Grief With Proverbs.

A Devil, A Born Devil On Whose Nature, Nurture Can Never Stick, On Whom My Pain, Humanly Taken, All Lost, Quite Lost.

Go, Write It In A Martial Hand; Be Curst And Brief; It Is No Matter How Witty, So It Be Eloquent And Fun Of Invention: Taunt Him With The Licence Of Ink: If Thou Thou'st Him Some Thrice, It Shall Not Be Amiss; And As Many Lies As Will Lie In Thy Shee.

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.

I Would With Such Perfection Govern, Sir, T'excel The Golden Age.