No Profit To Honour, No Honour To

Little Losses Amaze, Great Tame.

Who Says That Fictions Only And False Hair Become A Verse? Is There In Truth No Beauty? Is All Good Structure In A Winding Stair?

Whatsoever Was The Father Of A Disease, An Ill Diet Was The Mother.

Pursue Not A Victory Too Far. He Hath Conquered Well That Hath Made His Enemy Fly; Thou Mayest Beat Him To A Desperate Resistance, Which May Ruin Thee.

A Disarmed Peace Is Weake.