Sometimes, Less Is More.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

Nothing Routs Us But The Villainy Of Our Fears.

As Chaste As Unsunned Snow.

To Go To Bed After Midnight Is To Go To Bed Betimes

Every Cloud Engenders Not A Storm.