Thou Unfit For Any Place But Hell.

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

Better Three Hours Too Soon Than A Minute Too Late.

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

It's Easy For Someone To Joke About Scars If They've Never Been Cut.

Though It Make The Unskillful Laugh, Cannot But Make The Judicious Grieve.