When A Virtuous Man Is

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.

Blueness Doth Express Trueness.

Rich Apparel Has Strange Virtues; It Makes Him That Hath It Without Means Esteemed For An Excellent Wit; He That Enjoys It With Means Puts The World In Remembrance Of His Means.

I Have No Urns, No Dusty Monuments; No Broken Images Of Ancestors, Wanting An Ear, Or Nose; No Forged Tales Of Long Descents, To Boast False Honors From.

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.