If It Be True That

The Tongues Of Mocking Wenches Are As Keen As Is The Razor's Edge Invisible.

Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Love All, Trust A Few, Do Wrong To None: Be Able For Thine Enemy Rather In Power Than Use; And Keep Thy Friend Under Thy Own Life's Key: Be Check'd For Silence, But Never Tax'd For Speech.