Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

Take Pains. Be Perfect.

Affliction Is Enamoured Of Thy Parts, And Thou Art Wedded To Calamity.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

Home-keeping Youth Have Ever Homely Wits.

By Being Seldom Seen, I Could Not Stir But Like A Comet I Was Wondered At.