Many A True Word Hath Been Spoken

Well, Whiles I Am A Beggar, I Will Rail, And Say There Is No Sin But To Be Rich; And Being Rich, My Virtue Then Shall Be To Say There Is No Vice But Beggary

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

My Thought, Whose Murder Yet Is But Fantastical, Shakes So My Single State Of Man That Function Is Smothered In Surmise, And Nothing Is But What Is Not.

Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet She Will Plod.

The Why Is Plain As Way To Parish Church: He That A Fool Doth Very Wisely Hit Doth Very Foolishly, Although He Smart, Not To Seem Senseless Of The Bob; If Not, The Wise Man's Folly Is Anatomiz'd Even By The Squand'ring Glances Of The Fool.