What Excellent Fools Religion Makes Of Men.

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Freedom Doth With Degree Dispense.

I Have Discovered That A Famed Familiarity In Great Ones Is A Note Of Certain Usurpation On The Less; For Great And Popular Men Feign Themselves To Be Servants To Others To Make Those Slaves To Them.

The Devil Is An Ass , I Do Acknowledge It.