Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!

I See Men's Judgments Are A Parcel Of Their Fortunes; And Things Outward Do Draw The Inward Quality After Them, To Suffer All Alike.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.

Life... Is A Paradise To What We Know Of Death.

Our Very Eyes Are Sometimes, Like Our Judgments, Blind.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.