Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths.

There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.

By that sin fell the angels.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror