Sweet Meat Must Have Sour Sauce.

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.

I Have Discovered That A Famed Familiarity In Great Ones Is A Note Of Certain Usurpation On The Less; For Great And Popular Men Feign Themselves To Be Servants To Others To Make Those Slaves To Them.

Tis The Common Disease Of All Your Musicians That They Know No Mean, To Be Entreated, Either To Begin Or End.

Honor's A Good Brooch To Wear In A Man's Hat At All Times.

I Now Think, Love Is Rather Deaf, Than Blind, For Else It Could Not Be, That She, Whom I Adore So Much, Should So Slight Me, And Cast My Love Behind.