A Good Heart 'is Worth Gold.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art Not So Unkind, As Man's Ingratitude.

Look On Beauty, And You Shall See 'tis Purchased By The Weight.

I'll Be Supposed Upon A Book, His Face Is The Worst Thing About Him.

If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness, Did Lay Siege To It, Making It Momentary As A Sound, Swift As A Shadow, Short As Any Dream, Brief As The Lightning In The Collied Night That, In A Spleen, Unfolds Both Heaven And Earth, And Ere A Man Hath Power To Say 'behold!' The Jaws Of Darkness Do Devour It Up; So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.

More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My Brain.