Nothing Comes Amiss, So Money Comes Withal.

To Be, Or Not To Be, That Is The Question.

I Have Of Late--but Wherefore I Know Not--lost All My Mirth, Forgone All Custom Of Exercise.

My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.