When Words Are Scarce They Are Seldom

He Hath Not Eat Paper, As It Were; He Hath Not Drunk Ink; His Intellect Is Not Replenished; He Is Only An Animal, Only Sensible In The Duller Parts. (shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, Iv)

In Time The Savage Bull Doth Bear The Yoke.

O, How Shall Summer's Honey Breath Hold Out Against The Wreckful Siege Of Battering Days, When Rocks Impregnable Are Not So Stout, Nor Gates Of Steel So Strong, But Time Decays?

The Sweat Of Industry Would Dry And Die, But For The End It Works To.

Hate Pollutes The Mind.