Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm,

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come.

I Cannot Draw A Cart, Nor Eat Dried Oats; If It Be Man's Work, I'll Do't.

For There Was Never Yet Philosoper That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently, However They Have Writ The Style Of Gods, And Made A Push At Chance And Sufferance.

Madam, You Have Bereft Me Of All Words, Only My Blood Speaks To You In My Veins.

He Was A Man, Take Him For All In All, I Shall Not Look Upon His Like Again.