Our Praises Are Our Wages.

Assume A Virtue If You Have It Not.

Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From The Heart.

He Does Me Double Wrong That Wounds Me With The Flatteries Of His Tongue.

Should The Poor Be Flattered? No; Let The Candied Tongue Lick Absurd Pomp, And Crook The Pregnant Hinges Of The Knee Where Thrift May Follow Fawning.

Kiss Me, Kate, We Shall Be Married O'sunday