She Moves Me Not, Or Not Removes

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

Words Are Easy, Like The Wind; Faithful Friends Are Hard To Find.

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.

I Have Bought Golden Opinions From All Sorts Of People.

Nature, As It Grows Again Toward Earth, Is Fashioned For The Journey, Dull And Heavy.