It Infuriates Me To Be Wrong When

You Think You Can Marry For Your Own Pleasure, Friend?

Then Worms Shall Try That Long Preserved Virginity, And Your Quaint Honor Turn To Dust, And Into Ashes All My Lust. The Grave's A Fine And Private Place But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

We Are All Mortals, And Each Is For Himself.

All Extremes Does Perfect Reason Flee, And Wishes To Be Wise Quite Soberly.

The True Touchstone Of Wit Is The Impromptu.