Good Hay, Sweet Hay, Hath No Fellow.

If We Are True To Ourselves, We Can Not Be False To Anyone.

Men Prize The Thing Ungained More Than It Is.

I Have Not Slept. Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma, Or A Hideous Dream: The Genius And The Mortal Instruments Are Then In Council; And The State Of Man, Like To A Little Kingdom, Suffers Then The Nature Of An Insurrection.

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

Love's Fire Heats Water, Water Cools Not Love.