Oh, I Am Fortune's Fool!

Ah Me, How Weak A Thing The Heart Of Woman Is!

How Many A Holy And Obsequious Tear Hath Dear Religious Love Stolen From Mine Eye, As Interest Of The Dead!

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

Make Use Of Time, Let Not Advantage Slip; Beauty Within Itself Should Not Be Wasted: Fair Flowers That Are Not Gather'd In Their Prime Rot And Consume Themselves In Little Time.

Supposition All Our Lives Shall Be Stuck Full Of Eyes; For Treason Is But Trusted Like The Fox, Who, Ne'er So Tame, So Cherished And Locked Up, Will Have A Wild Trick Of His Ancestors.