Each Substance Of A Grief Has Twenty

Because I Cannot Flatter And Look Fair, Smile In Men's Faces, Smooth, Deceive, And Cog, Duck With French Nods And Apish Courtesy, I Must Be Held A Rancorous Enemy.

Me, Poor Man, My Library Was Dukedom Large Enough.

What, Gone Without A Word? Ay, So True Love Should Do; It Cannot Speak, For Truth Hath Better Deeds Than Words To Grace It.

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come.

Who Can Be Patient In Extremes?