A Sentence Is But A Cheveril Glove

Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself.

O Sleep! O Gentle Sleep! Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frighted Thee, That Thou No More Wilt Weigh My Eyelids Down And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness? Why Rather, Sleep, Liest Thou In Smoky Cribs, Upon Uneasy Pallets Stretching Thee, And Hush'd With Buzzing Night-flies To Thy Slumber, Than In The Perfum'd Chambers Of The Great, Under The Canopies Of Costly State, And Lull'd With Sound Of Sweetest Melody?

A Virtuous And A Christianlike Conclusion-- To Pray For Them That Have Done Scathe To Us.

The Last Taste Of Sweets Is Sweetest Last.

A Fusty Nut With No Kernel.