Men Fight Wars. Women Win Them.

The Stone Often Recoils On The Head Of The Thrower.

I Plucke Up The Goodlie Greene Herbes Of Sentences By Pruning, Eat Them By Reading, Chawe Them By Musing, And Laie Them Up At Length In The Hie Seate Of Memorie By Gathering Them Together; That I, Having Tasted The Sweetenes, L May The Lesse Perceave The Bitternes Of This Miserable Life.

Where Might Is Mixed With Wit, There Is Too Good An Accord In A Government.

My Mortal Foe Can No Ways Wish Me A Greater Harm Than England's Hate; Neither Should Death Be Less Welcome Unto Me Than Such A Mishap Betide Me.

Young Heads Take Example Of The Ancient