Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

It Comes To Pass Oft That A Terrible Oath, With A Swaggering Accent Sharply Twanged Off, Gives Manhood More Approbation Than Ever Proof Itself Would Have Earned Him.

Self-love, My Liege, Is Not So Vile A Sin, As Self-neglecting.

He Draweth Out The Thread Of His Verbosity Finer Than The Staple Of His Argument.

Never Anger Made Good Guard For Itself.