Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe,

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.

Love Is A Smoke Rais'd With The Fume Of Sighs; Being Purg'd, A Fire Sparkling In Lovers' Eyes; Being Vex'd, A Sea Nourish'd With Lovers' Tears; What Is It Else? A Madness Most Discreet, A Choking Gall, And A Preserving Sweet.

My Age Is As A Lusty Winter, Frosty But Kindly.

'tis Best To Weigh The Enemy More Mighty Than He Seems.

Because I Cannot Flatter And Look Fair, Smile In Men's Faces, Smooth, Deceive, And Cog, Duck With French Nods And Apish Courtesy, I Must Be Held A Rancorous Enemy.