Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.

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 the most humorous sadness.

Every why has a wherefore.