So Shalt Thou Feed On

No Man Means Evil But The Devil, And We Shall Know Him By His Horns.

Pain Pays The Income Of Each Precious Thing.

I Would Challenge You To A Battle Of Wits, But I See You Are Unarmed!

How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

A Woman Moved Is Like A Fountain Troubled, Muddy, Ill-seeming, Thick, Bereft Of Beauty.