My Father Names Me Autolycus, Who Being,

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.

And My Poor Fool Is Hanged! No, No, No Life! Why Should A Dog, A Horse, A Rat, Have Life, And Thou No Breath At All? Thou'lt Come No More, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray You, Undo This Button.

There's Her Cousin, An She Were Not Possessed With A Fury, Exceeds Her As Much In Beauty As The First Of May Doth The Last Of December.

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together: Our Virtues Would Be Proud If Our Faults Whipped Them Not; And Our Crimes Would Despair If They Were Not Cherished By Our Own Virtues.

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.