The Hand Of Little Employment Hath The

Men Judge By The Complexion Of The Sky The State And Inclination Of The Day.

Sin, That Amends, Is But Patched With Virtue.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.

I Love Thee, I Love Thee With A Love That Shall Not Die. Till The Sun Grows Cold And The Stars Grow Old.

If She Be Fair And Wise, Fairness And Wit, The One's For Use, The Other Useth It.