Thou Detestable Maw, Thou Womb Of Death.

Highly Fed And Lowly Taught.

You Are Made Rather To Wonder At The Things You Hear Than To Work Any.

My Purpose Is, Indeed, A Horse Of That Color.

Pardon, Gentles All, The Flat Unraised Spirits That Have Dared On This Unworthy Scaffold To Bring Forth So Great An Object.

Give To A Gracious Message An Host Of Tongues, But Let Ill Tidings Tell Themselves When They Be Felt.