Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None

Lend Less Than You Owe.

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

Since Brass, Nor Stone, Nor Earth, Nor Boundless Sea, But Bad Mortality O'ersways Their Power, How With This Rage Shall Beauty Hold A Plea, Whose Action Is No Stronger Than A Flower?

For 'tis The Sport To Have The Engineerhoist With His Own Petard.

Like A Red Morn That Ever Yet Betokened, Wreck To The Seaman, Tempest To The Field, Sorrow To The Shepherds, Woe Unto The Birds, Gusts And Foul Flaws To Herdmen And To Herds.