Out Of Clothes Out Of Countenance, Out

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

Come, My Celia, Let Us Prove, While We Can, The Sports Of Love, Time Will Not Be Ours For Ever, He, At Length, Our Good Will Sever; Spend Not Then His Gifts In Vain: Suns That Set May Rise Again; But If Once We Lose This Light, 'tis With Us Perpetual Night. Why Should We Defer Our Joys? Fame And Rumour Are But Toys.

All Concord's Born Of Contraries.

The World Knows Only Two, That's Rome And I.

A Good Dog Deserves A Good Bone.