Those Who Write Ill, And They Who

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

I Maintain, Against The Enemies Of The Stage, That Patterns Of Piety, Decently Represented, May Second The Precepts.

The World To Bacon Does Not Only Owe It's Present Knowledge, But Its Future Too.

It's A Hard World, Neighbors, If A Man's Oath Must Be His Master.

Present Joys Are More To Flesh And Blood Than A Dull Prospect Of A Distant Good.