While We Lie Tumbling In

An Honest Tale Speeds Best Being Plainly Told.

But We Have Reason To Cool Our Raging Motions, Our Carnal Stings, Our Unbitted Lusts; Whereof I Take This That You Call Love To Bea Sect Or Scion.... It Is Merely A Lust Of The Blood And A Permission Of The Will.

The Crow Doth Sing As Sweetly As The Lark When Neither Is Attended; And I Think The Nightingale, If She Should Sing By Day When Every Goose Is Cackling, Would Be Thought No Better A Musician Than The Wren. How Many Thing By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

Thou Call'st Me Dog Before Thou Hadst A Cause, But Since I Am A Dog, Beware My Fangs.

There Is Little Choice In A Barrel Of Rotten Apples.