Though She Be But Little, She Is

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

He Hath A Heart As Sound As A Bell, And His Tongue Is The Clapper; For What His Heart Thinks His Tongue Speaks.

Covering Discretion With A Coat Of Folly.

Although The Last, Not Least.

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.