For My Part, I May Speak It

Why, All Delights Are Vain, But That Most Vain Which, With Pain Purchased, Doth Inherit Pain: As, Painfully To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek The Light Of Truth, Which Truth The While Doth Falsely Blind The Eyesight Of His Look.

The Seasons Change Their Manners, As The Year Had Found Some Months Asleep And Leapt Them Over.

How Many Ages Hence Shall This Our Lofty Scene Be Acted Over In States Unborn And Accents Yet Unknown!

Good Luck Lies In Odd Numbers.

I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His Face Is The Worst Thing About Him.