The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put

And When Love Speaks, The Voice Of All The Gods Makes Heaven Drowsy With The Harmony.

To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow Pace At First.

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

The Summer's Flow'r Is To The Summer Sweet, Though To Itself It Only Live And Die' But If That Flow'r With Base Infection Meet, The Basest Weed Outbraves His Dignity: For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lilies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

When That The Poor Have Cried, Caesar Hath Wept: Ambition Should Be Made Of Sterner Stuff: Yet Brutus Says He Was Ambitious; And Brutus Is An Honourable Man.