The Tartness Of His Face Sours Ripe

If I Can Catch Him Once Upon The Hip, I Will Feed Fat The Ancient Grudge I Bear Him.

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

So All My Best Is Dressing Old Words New.

Love Is . . . A Madness Most Discreet

Before The Curing Of A Strong Disease, Even In The Instant Of Repair And Health, The Fit Is Strongest. Evils That Take Leave, On Their Departure Most Of All Show Evil.