Th Abuse Of Greatness Is When It

I Am Not Merry, But I Do Beguile The Thing I Am By Seeming Otherwise.

The Rarer Action Is In Virtue Than In Vengeance.

Though Now This Grained Face Of Mine Be Hid In Sap-consuming Winter's Drizzled Snow, And All The Conduits Of My Blood Froze Up, Yet Hath My Night Of Life Some Memory, My Wasting Lamps Some Fading Glimmer Left, My Dull Deaf Ears A Little Use To Hear.

Mine Eyes Smell Onions: I Shall Weep Anon.

Now Old Desire Doth In His Deathbed Lie, And Young Affection Gapes To Be His Heir; That Fair For Which Love Groan'd For And Would Die, With Tender Juliet Match'd, Is Now Not Fair.