There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.

Never Anything Can Be Amiss, When Simpleness And Duty Tender It.

Vaulting Ambition, Which O'erleaps Itself And Falls On The Other Side

It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give Fair Words.

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

Great Men May Jest With Saints; 'tis Wit In Them; But, In The Less Foul Profanation.