O Heaven! Were Man, But Constant, He

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

I Must To The Barber's, Monsieur, For Methinks I Am Marvellous Hairy About The Face.

Though Yet Of Hamlet Our Dear Brother's Death The Memory Be Green.

I Would There Were No Age Between Sixteen And Three-and-twenty, Or That Youth Would Sleep Out The Rest; For There Is Nothing In The Between But Getting Wenches With Child, Wronging The Ancientry, Stealing, Fighting