There Are Occasions And Causes, Why And

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.

I'll Follow Thee And Make A Heaven Of Hell, To Die Upon The Hand I Love So Well

O, What Damned Minutes Tells He O'er Who Dotes, Yet Doubts, Suspects, Yet Fondly Loves!

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.