We Cannot All Be Masters,

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

By Heaven, I Do Love: And It Hath Taught Me To Rhyme, And To Be Mekancholy.

A Great Cause Of The Night Is Lack Of The Sun.

They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit.

He That Wants Money, Means, And Content Is Without Three Good Friends.