That Old Bald Cheater, Time.

True Happiness Consists Not In The Multitude Of Friends, But In The Worth And Choice.

Tis The Common Disease Of All Your Musicians That They Know No Mean, To Be Entreated, Either To Begin Or End.

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

Rich Apparel Has Strange Virtues; It Makes Him That Hath It Without Means Esteemed For An Excellent Wit; He That Enjoys It With Means Puts The World In Remembrance Of His Means.