Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp

Let The Galled Jade Wince; Our Withers Are Unwrung.

My Free Drift Halts Not Particularly, But Moves Itself In A Wide Sea Of Wax; No Levelled Malice Infects One Comma In The Course I Hold, But Flies An Eagle Flight, Bold And Forth On, Leaving No Tract Behind.

Sir Andrew Ague-cheek: I'll Stay A Month Longer. I Am A Fellow O' The Strangest Mind I' The World; I Delight In Masques And Revels Sometimes Altogether (he's An Oddity In That He Enjoys Having Fun)

Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself.

How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?