Pity Melts The Mind To Love.

My Right Eye Itches, Some Good Luck Is Near.

To Take Up Half On Trust, And Half To Try, Name It Not Faith But Bungling Bigotry.

I Am Reading Jonson's Verses To The Memory Of Shakespeare; An Insolent, Sparing, And Invidious Panegyric.

For Every Inch That Is Not Fool, Is Rogue.

A Man May Be Capable, As Jack Ketch's Wife Said Of His Servant, Of A Plain Piece Of Work, A Bare Hanging; But To Makea Malefactordiesweetly Was Only Belonging Toher Husband.