Your Tale, Sir, Would Cure Deafness.

A Girl Takes Too Much Time To Love And A Few Seconds To Hate. But A Boy Takes A Few Seconds To Love And Too Much Time To Hate.

All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell Deeds.

Thou Art Sad; Get Thee A Wife, Get Thee A Wife!

I Have Neither The Scholar's Melancholy, Which Is Emulation; Nor The Musician's, Which Is Fantastical; Nor The Courtier's, Which Is Proud; Not The Soldier's Which Is Ambitious; Nor The Lawyer's, Which Is Politic; Nor The Lady's, Which Is Nice; Nor The Lover's, Which Is All These: But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In A Most Humorous Sadness.

'tis One Thing To Be Tempted, Another Thing To Fall.