Ay Me! Sad Hours Seem Long.

A Good Wit Will Make Use Of Anything.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

One Good Deed Dying Tongueless Slaughters A Thousand Waiting Upon That. Our Praises Are Our Wages.

When Great Leaves Fall, The Winter Is At Hand.

What's Gone, And What's Past Help, Should Be Past Grief.