I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

Sometimes when we are labeled, when we are branded our brand becomes our calling.

If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.

To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?

Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.

Who is it can read a woman?

Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.