Haste Is Needful In A Desperate Case.

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy, Which Is As Thin Of Substance As The Air, And More Inconstant Than The Wind, Who Woos Even Now The Frozen Bosom Of The North, And, Being Anger'd, Puffs Away From Thence, Turning His Side To The Dew-dropping South.

As Chaste As Is The Bud Ere It Be Blown.

I Do Not Know What Kind Of My Obedience I Should Tender. More Than My All Is Nothing; Nor My Prayers Are Not Words Holy Hallowed, Nor My Wishes More Worth Than Empty Vanities; Yet Prayers And Wishes Are All I Can Return.

Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity Him.