O God, That Men Should Put An

How Poor Are They That Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees?

What The Great Ones Do, The Less Will Prattle Of

What Many Men Desire--that 'many' May Be Meant By The Fool Multitude That Choose By Show, Not Learning More Than The Fond Eye Doth Teach, Which Pries Not To Th' Interior, But Like The Martlet Builds In The Weather On The Outward Wall, Even In The Force And Road Of Casualty.

Silence Is Only Commendable In A Neat's Tongue Dried, And A Maid Not Vendible.

I Had Rather Be A Dog, And Bay The Moon, Than Such A Roman.