Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus,

Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

Many A Man's Tongue Shakes Out His Master's Undoing.

Most Friendship Is Feigning, Most Loving Mere Folly.

Poor Wretches That Depend On Greatness' Favor, Dream As I Have Done; Wake, And Find Nothing.

Silence Is The Perfectest Herault Of Joy. I Were But Little Happy If I Could Say How Much.