Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest

Better A Little Chiding Than A Great Deal Of Heartbreak.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

I Am Not In The Giving Vein Today.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

O World, How Apt The Poor Are To Be Proud!