Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping

Tell Them, That, To Ease Them Of Their Griefs, Their Fear Of Hostile Strokes, Their Aches, Losses, Their Pangs Of Love, With Other Incident Throes That Nature's Fragile Vessel Doth Sustain In Life's Uncertain Voyage, I Will Some Kindness Do Them.

We Have Some Salt Of Our Youth In Us.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.