Every Language Is So Full Of Its

Thou Spring'st A Leak Already In Thy Crown, A Flaw Is In Thy Ill-bak'd Vessel Found; 'tis Hollow, And Returns A Jarring Sound, Yet Thy Moist Clay Is Pliant To Command, Unwrought, And Easy To The Potter's Hand: Now Take The Mould; Now Bend Thy Mind To Feel The First Sharp Motions Of The Forming Wheel.

Prodigious Actions May As Well Be Done, By Weaver's Issue, As The Prince's Son.

Let Cheerfulness On Happy Fortune Wait.

Rhyme Is The Rock On Which Thou Art To Wreck.

One Cannot Say He Wanted Wit, But Rather That He Was Frugal Of It.