Most Dear Actors, Eat No Onions Nor

You Have Lost No Reputation At All, Unless You Repute Yourself Such A Loser.

The Lily I Condemned For Thy Hand, And Buds Of Marjoram Had Stol'n Thy Hair: The Roses Fearfully On Thorns Did Stand, One Blushing Shame, Another White Despair; A Third, Nor Red Nor White, Had Stol'n Of Both And To His Robbery Had Annex'd Thy Breath; But, For His Theft, In Pride Of All His Growth A Vengeful Canker Eat Him Up To Death. More Flowers I Noted, Yet I None Could See But Sweet Or Colour It Had Stol'n From Thee.

Thou Knowest, Winter Tames Man, Woman, And Beast.

Speak The Speech, I Pray You, As I Pronounc'd It To You, Trippingly On The Tongue.

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.