Two Women Placed Together Makes Cold Weather.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

I Have Neither The Scholar's Melancholy, Which Is Emulation; Nor The Musician's, Which Is Fantastical; Nor The Courtier's, Which Is Proud; Not The Soldier's Which Is Ambitious; Nor The Lawyer's, Which Is Politic; Nor The Lady's, Which Is Nice; Nor The Lover's, Which Is All These: But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In A Most Humorous Sadness.

Better A Witty Fool Than A Foolish Wit.

If I Can Catch Him Once Upon The Hip, I Will Feed Fat The Ancient Grudge I Bear Him.