Men's Evil Manners Live In

Never Durst Poet Touch A Pen To Write Until His Ink Were Temper'd With Love's Sighs.

Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.

Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry, But Heaviness Foreruns The Good Event.

Tell Me, Daughter Juliet, How Stands Your Dispositions To Be Married" It Is An Honor That I Dream Not Of