In Scorn Of Nature, Art Gave Lifeless

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

The Poorest Service Is Repaid With Thanks.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head; Not Decked With Diamonds And Indian Stones, Nor To Be Seen: My Crown Is Called Content, A Crown It Is That Seldom Kings Enjoy.

What, Man, Defy The Devil. Consider, He's An Enemy To Mankind.

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!