Every Why Has A Wherefore.

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.

A College Of Wit-crackers Cannot Flout Me Out Of My Humor. Dost Thou Think I Care For A Satire Or An Epigram?

So Distribution Should Undo Excess, And Each Man Have Enough.

I Will Keep Where There Is Wit Stirring, And Leave The Faction Of Fools.

Four Days Will Quickly Steep Themselves In Nights; Four Nights Will Quickly Dream Away The Time; And Then The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven, Shall Behold The Night Of Our Solemnities.