What E'er Thou Art, Act Well Thy

I Wish My Horse Had The Speed Of Your Tongue.

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding.

And Where Two Raging Fires Meet Together, They Do Consume The Thing That Feeds Their Fury.

There's Little Of The Melancholy Element In Her, My Lord: She Is Never Sad But When She Sleeps; And Not Ever Sad Then; For I Have Heard My Daughter Say, She Hath Often Dreamt Of Unhappiness, And Waked Herself With Laughing.

Guiltiness Will Speak, Though Tongues Were Out Of Use