What A Terrible Era In Which Idiots

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.

Though Age From Folly Could Not Give Me Freedom, It Does From Childishness.

It Is The Bright Day That Brings Forth The Adder, And That Craves Wary Walking.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

Say She Rail; Why, I'll Tell Her Plain She Sings As Sweetly As A Nightingale. Say That She Frown; I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Wash'd With Dew. Say She Be Mute And Will Not Speak A Word; Then I'll Commend Her Volubility, And Say She Uttereth Piercing Eloquence.