Short Summers Lightly Have A Forward Spring.

Do Not Plunge Thyself Too Far In Anger.

Out, Out, Brief Candle! Life's But A Walking Shadow.

Thou Art Thy Mother's Glass, And She In Thee Calls Back The Lovely April Of Her Prime...

If I Shall Be Condemned Upon Surmises, All Proofs Sleeping Else But What Your Jealousies Awake, I Tell You 'tis Rigor And Not Law.

Beware Of Entrance To A Quarrel.