We Have Seen Better Days.

Is She Not Passing Fair?

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

Time Is The Nurse And Breeder Of All Good.

Make The Doors Upon A Woman's Wit, And It Will Out At The Casement; Shut That, And 'twill Out At The Key-hole; Stop That, 'twill Fly With The Smoke Out At The Chimney.