'tis Pride That Pulls The Country Down.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still For That Which Longer Nurseth The Disease, Feeding On That Which Doth Preserve The Ill, Th' Uncertain Sickly Appetite To Please. My Reason, The Physician To My Love, Angry That His Prescriptions Are Not Kept, Hath Left Me, And I Desperate Now Approve Desire Is Death, Which Physic Did Except.

This Sleep Is Sound Indeed; This Is A Sleep That From This Golden Rigol Hath Divorc'd So Many English Kings.

This Above All; To Thine Own Self Be True.

What Freezings I Have Felt, What Dark Days Seen, What Old December's Bareness Everywhere!

The Devil Knew What He Did When He Made Men Politic; He Crossed Himself By It.