When We Are Born We Cry That

Talking Isn't Doing. It Is A Kind Of Good Deed To Say Well; And Yet Words Are Not Deeds.

'tis Pride That Pulls The Country Down.

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

Should All Despair That Have Revolted Wives, The Tenth Of Mankind Would Hang Themselves.

I'll Read Enough When I Do See The Very Book Indeed Where All My Sins Are Writ, And That's Myself.