They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit.

Lords, Knights And Gentlemen, What I Should Say My Tears Gainsay; For Every Word I Speak, Ye See I Drink The Water Of My Eye.

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.

Fairest Cordelia, That Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Loved, Despised! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon: Be It Lawful I Take Up What's Cast Away. Gods, Gods! 'tis Strange That From Their Cold'st Neglect My Love Should Kindle To Inflamed Respect. Thy Dowerless Daughter, King, Thrown To My Chance, Is Queen Of Us, Of Ours, And Our Fair France: Not All The Dukes Of Waterish Burgundy Can Buy This Unprized Precious Maid Of Me. Bid Them Farewell, Cordelia, Though Unkind: Thou Losest Here, A Better Where To Find.

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Enjoy The Honey-heavy Dew Of Slumber.