Memory, The Warder Of The Brain.

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

I Had Rather Have A Fool To Make Me Merry Than Experience To Make Me Sad And To Travel For It Too!

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

O Gentle Son, Upon The Heat And Flame Of Thy Distemper, Sprinkle Cool Patience.

But Miserable Most, To Love Unloved? This You Should Pity Rather Than Despise