Nothing Comes From Doing Nothing.

Stay, My Lord, And Let Your Reason With Your Choler Question What 'tis You Go About: To Climb Steep Hills Requires Slow Pace At First: Anger Is Like A Full-hot Horse, Who Being Allow'd His Way, Self-mettle Tires Him. Not A Man In England Can Advise Me Like You: Be To Yourself As You Would To Your Friend.

He Doth Nothing But Talk Of His Horses.

If There Be Devils, Would I Were A Devil, To Live And Burn In Everlasting Fire, So I Might Have Your Company In Hell, But To Torment You With My Bitter Tongue!

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.