On The Bat’s Back I Do Fly

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

We Must Every One Be A Man Of His Own Fancy.

I Doubt Not Then But Innocence Shall Makefalse Accusation Blush, And Tyrannytremble At Patience.

Fools Are As Like Husbands As Pilchards Are To Herrings, The Husband's The Bigger.

I Fill Up A Place, Which May Be Better... When I Have Made It Empty.