Diseased Nature Oftentimes Breaks Forth In Strange

For Where Thou Art, There Is The World Itself, With Every Several Pleasure In The World, And Where Thou Art Not, Desolation.

If Reasons Were As Plentiful As Blackberries, I Would Give No Man A Reason Upon Compulsion.

Forbear To Judge, For We Are Sinners All.

I Am A True Laborer: I Earn That I Eat, Get That I Wear, Owe No Man Hate, Envy No Man's Happiness, Glad Of Other Men's Good, Content With My Harm.

Twas Never Merry World Since Lowly Feigning Was Called Compliment.