The Envious Will Die, But Envy Never.

Everything That's Prose Isn't Verse And Everything That Isn't Verse Is Prose. Now You See What It Is To Be A Scholar!

I Live On Good Soup, Not On Fine Words.

No Reason Makes It Right To Shun Accepted Ways From Stubborn Spite; And We May Better Join The Foolish Crowd Than Cling To Wisdom, Lonely Though Unbowed.

Stay Awhile That We May Make An End The Sooner.

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.