It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye,

We Suffer A Lot The Few Things We Lack And We Enjoy Too Little The Many Things We Have.

Why, All Delights Are Vain, But That Most Vain Which, With Pain Purchased, Doth Inherit Pain: As, Painfully To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek The Light Of Truth, Which Truth The While Doth Falsely Blind The Eyesight Of His Look.

Love Is Merely A Madness.

Robust Grass Endures Mighty Winds; Loyal Ministers Emerge Through Ordeal.

Give Me A Staff Of Honor For Mine Age, But Not A Sceptre To Control The World.