Rest You Fair, Good Signior;

Against Love's Fire Fear`s Frost Hath Dissolution

T'is True: There's Magic In The Web Of It.

I Would Challenge You To A Battle Of Wits, But I See You Are Unarmed!

Why, All Delights Are Vain; But That Most Vain, Which, With Pain Purchas'd, Doth Inherit Pain.

I Cannot Draw A Cart, Nor Eat Dried Oats; If It Be Man's Work, I'll Do't.