O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man

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

Great Men May Jest With Saints; 'tis Wit In Them; But, In The Less Foul Profanation.

And Do So, Love, Yet When They Have Devised What Strainèd Touches Rhetoric Can Lend, Thou, Truly Fair, Wert Truly Sympathized In True Plain Words By Thy True-telling Friend; And Their Gross Painting Might Be Better Used Where Cheeks Need Blood; In Thee It Is Abused.

There's Rosemary, That's For Remembrance. Pray You, Love, Remember.

'tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile Esteemed, When Not To Be, Receives Reproach Of Being, And The Just Pleasure Lost, Which Is So Deemed, Not By Our Feeling, But By Others' Seeing.