Assume A Virtue, If You Have It

Gold Were As Good As Twenty Orators.

Give Thy Thoughts No Tongue.

Roses Have Thorns, And Silver Fountains Mud; Clouds And Eclipses Stain Both Moon And Sun, And Loathsome Canker Lies In Sweetest Bud. All Men Make Faults.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

Things At The Worst Will Cease Or Else Climb Upward To What They Were Before.