I Have Heard It Said

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triumph Die, Like Fire And Powder, Which As They Kiss Consume. The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness And In The Taste Confounds The Appetite. Therefore Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

Weariness Can Snore Upon The Flint When Resting Sloth Finds The Down Pillow Hard.