Wishers Were Ever Fools.

Covering Discretion With A Coat Of Folly.

But We Have Reason To Cool Our Raging Motions, Our Carnal Stings, Our Unbitted Lusts; Whereof I Take This That You Call Love To Bea Sect Or Scion.... It Is Merely A Lust Of The Blood And A Permission Of The Will.

He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His Horses.

O God, I Could Be Bound In A Nutshell, And Count Myself A King Of Infinite Space – Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams.

Such Thanks As Fits A King's Remembrance.