There's Not The Smallest Orb Which Thou

There Is Not One Wise Man In Twenty That Will Praise Himself.

There's Not A Note Of Mine That's Worth The Noting.

Honor's Thought Reigns Solely In The Breast Of Every Man.

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.