Striving To Better, Oft We Mar What’s

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

O' Thinkest Thou We Shall Ever Meet Again? I Doubt It Not; And All These Woes Shall Serve For Sweet Discourses In Our Times To Come.

I Have Sounded The Very Base-string Of Humility.

You Dull Ass Will Not Mend His Pace With Beating.

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.