Mechanic Slaves With Greasy Aprons, Rules, And

Your Bait Of Falsehood Takes This Carp Of Truth, And Thus Do We Of Wisdom And Of Reach, With Windlasses And With Assays Of Bias, By Indirections Find Directions Out.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.

Mine Honour Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honour From Me, And My Life Is Done.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich