Well, If Fortune Be A Woman, She's

The Dullness Of The Fool Is The Whetstone Of The Wits.

Ay, But Hearken, Sir; Though The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air, I Am One That Am Nourished By My Victuals, And Would Fain Have Meat.

Promising Is The Very Air O' The Time; It Opens The Eyes Of Expectation.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

It Is Not, Nor It Cannot, Come To Good, But Break, My Heart, For I Must Hold My Tongue.