An Old Black Ram Is Tupping Your

But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives, And Dies In Single Blessedness.

The Fool Multitude, That Choose By Show, Not Learning More Than The Fond Eye Doth Teach.

But Whate'er You Are That In This Desert Inaccessible, Under The Shade Of Melancholy Boughs, Lose And Neglect The Creeping Hours Of Time; If You Have Ever Looked On Better Days, If Ever Been Where Bells Knoll'd To Church, If Ever Sat At Any Good Man's Feast, If Ever From Your Eyelids Wiped A Tear, And Know What 'tis To Pity And Be Pitied, Let Gentleness My Strong Enforcement Be. . . .

The Golden Age Is Before Us, Not Behind Us.

There's Never A Villain Dwelling In All Denmark But He's An Arrant Knave.