Be Lion-mettled, Proud, And Take

She Never Told Her Love, But Let Concealment, Like A Worm 'i Th' Bud, Feed On Her Damask Cheek. She Pinned In Thought; And, With A Green And Yellow Melancholy, She Sat Like Patience On A Monument, Smiling At Grief. Was Not This Love Indeed? We Men May Say More, Swear More; But Indeed Our Shows Are More Than Will; For We Still Prove Much In Our Vows But Little In Our Love.

A Fool Thinks Himself To Be Wise, But A Wise Man Knows Himself To Be A Fool.

To Be In Anger Is Impiety, But Who Is Man That Is Not Angry?

Every Subject's Duty Is The Kings, But Every Subject's Soul Is His Own.

Dissembling Courtesy! How Fine This Tyrant Can Trickle When She Wounds!