Every True Man's Apparel Fits Your Thief.

Age, I Do Abhor Thee, Youth, I Do Adore Thee.

How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem By That Sweet Ornament Which Truth Doth Give!

Some Are Born Great, Others Achieve Greatness.

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.