Nature Hath Meal And Bran, Contempt And

Now, By The World, It Is A Lusty Wench; I Love Her Ten Times More Than E'er I Did: O, How I Long To Have Some Chat With Her!

Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious Thing.

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.

Men Have Died From Time To Time, And Worms Have Eaten Them, But Not For Love.

Discuss Unto Me: Art Thou Officer, Or Art Thou Base, Common, And Popular?