Ay Me! Sad Hours Seem Long.

Why, Headstrong Liberty Is Lashed With Woe. There's Nothing Situate Under Heaven's Eye But Hath His Bound, In Earth, In Sea, In Sky.

Sir, The Year Growing Ancient, Not Yet On Summer's Death Nor On The Birth Of Trembling Winter, The Fairest Flowers O' Th' Season Are Our Carnations And Streaked Gillyvors, Which Some Call Nature's Bastards.

We Must Take The Current When It Serves, Or Lose Our Ventures.

Jesters Do Oft Prove Prophets.

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.