Words, Words, Mere Words, No Matter From

Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting; It Is A Most Sharp Sauce.

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

His Worst Fault Is, He's Given To Prayer; He Is Something Peevish That Way.

One Man In His Time Plays Many Parts.

Methinks I Am A Prophet New Inspired And Thus, Expiring, Do Foretell Of Him: His Rash Fierce Blaze Of Riot Cannot Last, For Violent Fires Soon Burn Out Themselves; Small Show'rs Last Long, But Sudden Storms Are Short; He Tires Betimes That Spurs Too Fast Betimes; With Eager Feeding Doth Choke The Feeder; Light Vanity, Insatiate Cormorant, Consuming Means, Soon Preys Upon Itself.