All Concord's Born Of Contraries.

The Dignity Of Truth Is Lost With Much Protesting.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.

Nothing Is A Courtesy Unless It Be Meant Us, And That Friendly And Lovingly. We Owe No Thanks To Rivers That They Carry Our Boats, Or Winds That They Be Favoring And Fill Our Sails, Or Meats That They Be Nourishing; For These Are What They Are Necessarily. Horses Carry Us, Trees Shade Us; But They Know It Not.

[the Play] Is Like To Be A Very Conceited Scurvy One, In Plain English.

To Struggle When Hope Is Banished! To Live When Life's Salt Is Gone! To Dwell In A Dream That's Vanished- To Endure, And Go Calmly On!