Love Laughs At Locksmiths.

Women Being The Weaker Vessels, Are Ever Thrust To The Walls.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

Two Stars Keep Not Their Motion In One Sphere.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.

Had I But Served My God With Half The Zeal I Served My King, He Would Not In Mine Age Have Left Me Naked To Mine Enemies.