The Play's The Thing.

. . . It Is Impossible You Should Take True Root But By The Fair Weather That You Make Yourself It Is Needful That You Frame The Season Of Your Own Harvest.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

Smooth Runs The Water Where The Brook Is Deep.

I Thank God I Am As Honest As Any Man Living That Is An Old Man And No Honester Than I.

To England Will I Steal, And There I'll Steal.