Nothing In His Life Became Him Like

I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark.

Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards Use, Devised At First To Keep The Strong In Awe

Out Of Her Favour, Where I Am In Love.

The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The Daintier Sense.

What Win I, If I Gain The Thing I Seek? A Dream, A Breath, A Froth Of Fleeting Joy. Who Buys A Minute's Mirth To Wail A Week? Or Sells Eternity To Get A Toy? For One Sweet Grape Who Will The Vine Destroy? Or What Fond Beggar, But To Touch The Crown, Would With The Sceptre Straight Be Strucken Down?