The Sands Are Number'd That Make Up

Why, I Can Smile And Murder Whiles I Smile, And Cry 'content' To That Which Grieves My Heart, And Wet My Cheeks With Artificial Tears, And Frame My Face For All Occasions

Mind Your Speech A Little Lest You Should Mar Your Fortunes.

All Love's Pleasure Shall Not Match Its Woe.

I Will Not Choose What Many Men Desire, Because I Will Not Jump With Common Spirits And Rank Me With The Barbarous Multitudes.

Gold Were As Good As Twenty Orators.