For Man Is A Giddy Thing, And

Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty Shadows.

Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice.

If You Be King, Why Should Not I Succeed?

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

What Our Contempts Do Often Hurl From Us, We Wish It Ours Again.