Sometimes, Less Is More.

But I Am Constant As The Northern Star, Of Whose True Fixed And Resting Quality There Is No Fellow In The Firmament.

It Is The Mind That Makes The Body Rich; And As The Sun Breaks Through The Darkest Clouds, So Honor Peereth In The Meanest Habit.

They That Stand High Have Many Blasts To Shake Them.

Haply For I Am Black, And Have Not Those Soft Parts Of Conversation That Chamberers Have; Or For I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years—yet That’s Not Much— She’s Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her. O Curse Of Marriage, That We Can Call These Delicate Creatures Ours And Not Their Appetites! I Had Rather Be A Toad And Live Upon The Vapor Of A Dungeon Than Keep A Corner In The Thing I Love For Others’ Uses. Yet ’tis The Plague Of Great Ones; Prerogatived Are They Less Than The Base. ’tis Destiny Unshunnable, Like Death.

What's The News? None, My Lord, But That The World's Grown Honest, Then Is Doomsday Near.