Words Are Grown So False, I Am

Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!

While We Lie Tumbling In The Hay.

For You And I Are Past Our Dancing Days.

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.