And Where She Went, The Flowers Took

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.

Great Honours Are Great Burdens, But On Whom They Are Cast With Envy, He Doth Bear Two Loads.

Let Those That Merely Talk And Never Think, That Live In The Wild Anarchy Of Drink

Books Are Faithful Repositories, Which May Be Awhile Neglected Or Forgotten, But When They Are Opened Again, Will Again Impart Their Instruction.

All Discourses But My Own Afflict Me; They Seem Harsh, Impertinent, And Irksome