Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If

Doubting Things Go Ill Often Hurts More Than To Be Sure They Do; For Certainties Either Are Past Remedies, Or, Timely Knowing, The Remedy Then Born.

Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

The Happiest Youth, Viewing His Progress Through, What Perils Past, What Crosses To Ensue, Would Shut The Book, And Sit Him Down And Die.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

... The Spring, The Summer, The Chilling Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries; And The Mazed World By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.