On Rumor's Tongue Continual Slanders Ride.

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

What Though Care Killed A Cat, Thou Hast Mettle Enough In Thee To Kill Care.

Love Is Your Master, For He Masters You; And He That Is So Yoked By A Fool Methinks Should Not Be Chronicled For Wise.

I Shall Show The Cinders Of My Spirits Through The Ashes Of My Chance.

Too Much Of Water Hast Thou, Poor Ophelia, And Therefore I Forbid My Tears: But Yet It Is Our Trick; Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will: When These Are Gone, The Woman Will Be Out. — Adieu, My Lord! I Have A Speech Of Fire, That Fain Would Blaze, But That This Folly Drowns It.