I Am Ill At These Numbers.

The Heavens Themselves, The Planets, And This Centre Observe Degree, Priority, And Place, Insisture, Course, Proportion, Season, Form, Office, And Custom, In All Line Of Order.

Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those Who Win.

They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit.

People’s Good Deeds We Write In Water. The Evil Deeds Are Etched In Brass.

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.