Nothing Emboldens Sin So Much As Mercy.

It Hurts Not The Tongue To Give Fair Words.

Love, Whose Month Is Ever May, Spied A Blossom Passing Fair, Playing In The Wanton Air: Through The Velvet Leaves The Wind, All Unseen Can Passage Find; That The Lover, Sick To Death, Wish'd Himself The Heaven's Breath.

A Very Little Thief Of Occasion Will Rob You Of A Great Deal Of Patience.

Why, Look You, I Am Whipp'd And Scourg'd With Rods, Nettled And Stung With Pismires[nettles], When I Hear Of This Vile Politician, Bolingbroke.

When We Our Betters See Bearing Our Woes, We Scarcely Think Our Miseries Our Foes.