Your Highest Female Grace Is Silence.

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.

God Wisheth None Should Wreck On A Strange Shelf: To Him Man's Dearer Than To Himself.

Blueness Doth Express Trueness.

I Would Rather Have A Plain Down-right Wisdom Than A Foolish And Affected Eloquence.