Every Cloud Engenders Not A

I Do Begin To Have Bloody Thoughts.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear Of Him That Hears It, Never In The Tongue Of Him That Makes It.

How Quickly Nature Falls Into Revolt When Gold Becomes Her Object! For This The Foolish Over-careful Fathers Have Broke Their Sleep With Thoughts, Their Brains With Care, Their Bones With Industry.

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.