But Thou Art Fair, And

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

Once More Unto The Breach, Dear Friends, Once More; Or Close The Wall With Our English Dead.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

A College Of Wit-crackers Cannot Flout Me Out Of My Humor. Dost Thou Think I Care For A Satire Or An Epigram?

Foolery, Sir, Does Walk About The Orb Like The Sun; It Shines Everywhere.