O, What Men Dare Do!

The Happiest Youth, Viewing His Progress Through, What Perils Past, What Crosses To Ensue, Would Shut The Book, And Sit Him Down And Die.

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.

Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

To Show An Unfelt Sorrow Is An Office Which The False Man Does Easy.