And How His Audit Stands Who Knows,

Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel, Do Not Press My Tongue-tied Patience With Too Much Disdain: Lest Sorrow Lend Me Words And Words Express, The Manner Of My Pity-wanting Pain.

My Nature Is Subdued To What It Works In, Like The Dyer's Hand.

Rest You Fair, Good Signior; Your Worship Was The Last Man In Our Mouths.

Unhappy That I Am, I Cannot Heave My Heart Into My Mouth.

Like A Barber's Chair That Fits All Buttocks.