A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In

But There Is No Such Man; For, Brother, Men Can Counsel And Speak Comfort To That Grief Which They Themselves Not Feel; But, Tasting It, Their Counsel Turns To Passion, Which Before Would Give Preceptial Medicine To Rage, Fetter Strong Madness In A Silken Thread, Charm Ache With Air And Agony With Words.

We Suffer A Lot The Few Things We Lack And We Enjoy Too Little The Many Things We Have.

Sweet Are The Uses Of Adversity

You Wear Out A Good Wholesome Forenoon In Hearing A Cause Between An Orange Wife And A Fosset-seller.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!