You Will Never Age For Me, Nor

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On, Give Me Excess Of It; That Surfeiting, The Appetite May Sicken, And So Die.

No, No; 'tis All Men's Office To Speak Patience To Those That Wring Under The Load Of Sorrow, But No Man's Virtue Nor Sufficiency To Be So Moral When He Shall Endure The Like Himself. Therefore Give Me No Counsel: My Griefs Cry Louder Than Advertisement.

Rich Gifts Wax Poor When Givers Prove Unkind.

You Dull Ass Will Not Mend His Pace With Beating.

To Move Wild Laughter In The Throat Of Death? It Cannot Be; It Is Impossible: Mirth Cannot Move A Soul In Agony.