Go Wisely And Slowly. Those Who Rush

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.

Do Not Spread The Compost On The Weeds.

For Youth No Less Becomes The Light And Careless Livery That It Wears, Than Settled Age His Sables, And His Weeds Importing Health And Graveness.

Dreams Are The Children Of Idled Minds.

Love Is A Spirit All Compact Of Fire.