A Time, Methinks, Too Short To Make

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

Refrain To-night; And That Shall Lend A Kind Of Easiness To The Next Abstinence, The Next More Easy; For Use Almost Can Change The Stamp Of Nature, And Either Master The Devil Or Throw Him Out With Wondrous Potency.

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.

Small Things Make Base Men Proud.

Jesu, Jesu, The Mad Days That I Have Spent! And To See How Many Of My Old Acquaintance Are Dead!