Still Constant Is A Wondrous Excellence.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.

Your Worm Is Your Only Emperor For Diet; We Fat All Creatures Else To Fat Us, And We Fat Ourselves For Maggots.

Prepare For Mirth, For Mirth Becomes A Feast.

I Can Give The Loser Leave To Chide.

That You Were Once Unkind Befriends Me Now, And For That Sorrow, Which I Then Did Feel, Needs Must I Under My Transgression Bow, Unless My Nerves Were Brass Or Hammered Steel.