Profit Is A Blessing, If

Then Was I As A Tree Whose Boughs Did Bend With Fruit; But In One Night, A Storm Or Robbery, Call It What You Will, Shook Down My Mellow Hangings, Nay, My Leaves, And Left Me Bare To Weather.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears.

A Heavier Task Could Not Have Been Impos'd, Than I To Speak My Griefs Unspeakable.

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.

Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty Is His.