If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

Why, What's The Matter, That You Have Such A February Face, So Full Of Frost, Of Storm And Cloudiness?

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Or Anger

Wise Men Ne'er Sit And Wail Their Woes, But Presently Prevent The Ways To Wail.

Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick His Own Fingers.

The Wound Of Peace Is Surety, Surety Secure.