Hang Sorrow, Care'll Kill A Cat.

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.

Folly Often Goes Beyond Her Bounds, But Impudence Knows None.

Ods Me I Marle What Pleasure Or Felicity They Have In Taking Their Roguish Tobacco. It Is Good For Nothing But To Choke A Man, And Fill Him Full Of Smoke And Embers.

He Who Is Taught Only By Himself Has A Fool For A Master.

O, For An Engine, To Keep Back All Clocks, Or Make The Sun Forget His Motion!