Nice Customs Curtsy To Great

Contention, Like A Horse, Full Of High Feeding, Madly Hath Broke Loose, And Bears Down All Before Him.

Our Purses Shall Be Proud, Our Garments Poor; For 'tis The Mind That Makes The Body Rich

I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Washed With Dew.

My Father's Wit, And My Mother's Tongue, Assist Me!

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!