Give Me To Drink Mandragora.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

More Matter With Less Art.

I And My Bosom Must Debate Awhile, And Then I Would No Other Company.

Tongues I'll Hang On Every Tree That Shall Civil Sayings Show. . . .

The Robbed That Smiles, Steals Something From The Thief.