Fair Words Never Hurt The Tongue.

An Ill Weed Grows Apace.

Man Is A Torch Borne In The Wind; A Dream But Of A Shadow, Summed With All His Substance.

For One Heat, All Know, Doth Drive Out Another, One Passion Doth Expel Another Still.

Enough 's As Good As A Feast.

And For The Authentical Truth Of Either Person Or Actions, Who (worth The Respecting) Will Expect It In A Poem, Whose Subject Is Not Truth, But Things Like Truth? Poor Envious Souls They Are That Cavil At Truth's Want In These Natural Fictions; Material Instruction, Elegant And Sententious Excitation To Virtue, And Deflection From Her Contrary, Being The Soul, Limbs, And Limits Of An Authentical Tragedy.