Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

What Precious Drops Are Those, Which Silently Each Other's Track Pursue, Bright As Young Diamonds In Their Faint Dew?

Pleasure Never Comes Sincere To Man; But Lent By Heaven Upon Hard Usury.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

Mighty Things From Small Beginnings Grow.