My Age Is As A Lusty Winter,

I Had Rather Be A Kitten And Cry Mew Than One Of These Same Metre Ballet-mongers.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

The Icy Precepts Of Respect.

I Crave Fit Disposition For My Wife; Due Reference Of Place, And Exhibition; With Such Accommodation, And Besort, As Levels With Her Breeding.

Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious Thing.