Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though

Light Boats Sail Swift, Though Greater Hulks Draw Deep.

In That Small [time] Most Greatly Lived This Star Of England: Fortune Made His Sword, By Which The World's Best Garden He Achiev'd And Left It To His Son Imperial Lord. Henry The Sixth, In Infant Bands Crown'd King Of France And England Did This King Succeed; Whose State So Many Of Had The Managing, That They Lost France And Made His England Bleed.

Thou Whoreson Zed! Thou Unnecessary Letter! My Lord, If You Will Give Me Leave, I Will Tread This Unbolted Villain Into Mortar, And Daub The Wall Of A Jakes With Him. *all Cheer For Shakespearean Insults*

Hast Any Philosophy In Thee Shepherd? .• • • • . . . He That Wants Money, Means And Content, Is Without Three Good Friends; That The Property Of Rain Is To Wet And Fire To Burn; That Good Pasture Makes Fat Sheep, And A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun; That He That Hath Learned No Wit By Nature Nor Art May Complain Of Good Breeding Or Comes Of A Very Dull Kindred.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triumph Die, Like Fire And Powder, Which As They Kiss Consume. The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness And In The Taste Confounds The Appetite. Therefore Love Moderately; Long Love Doth So; Too Swift Arrives As Tardy As Too Slow.