Never Anger Made Good Guard For Itself.

I Cannot Do It Without Comp[u]ters.

We Suffer A Lot The Few Things We Lack And We Enjoy Too Little The Many Things We Have.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

Grief Hath Two Tongues; And Never Woman Yet Could Rule Them Both Without Ten Women's Wit.

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.