Such Antics Do Not Amount To A

There Should Be Hours For Necessities, Not For Delights; Times To Repair Our Nature With Comforting Repose, And Not For Us To Waste These Times.

Direct Not Him Whose Way Himself Will Choose; 'tis Breath Not Lack'st, And That Breath Wilt Thou Lose.

Oh What Fools We Mortals Are.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

Good Wine Needs No Bush.