The Dullness Of The Fool Is The

It Is A Heretic That Makes The Fire, Not She Which Burns In It.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

Better A Little Chiding Than A Great Deal Of Heartbreak.

Time Doth Transfix The Flourish Set On Youth And Delves The Parallels In Beauty's Brow.

Lady, You Are The Cruel'st She Alive If You Will Lead These Graces To The Grave And Leave The World No Copy.