To swallow gudgeons ere they're catched, And count their chickens ere they're hatched.

He cou'd foretel whats'ever was By consequence to come to pass; As death of great men, alterations, Diseases, battles, inundations. All this, without th' eclip…

Love is a boy, by poets styled, Then spare the rod and spoil the child.

This Light inspires, and plays upon The nose of Saint like Bag-pipe drone, And speaks through hollow empty Soul, As through a Trunk, or whisp'ring hole, Such l…

There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally modify the ideal train of events,…

Everything takes me longer than I expect. It's the sad truth about life.

Don't count your boobies until they are hatched.