Give Me A Bowl Of Wine, In

It Is A Good Divine That Follows His Own Instructions.

You Have Too Much Respect Upon The World; They Lose It That Do Buy It With Much Care

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.

An Honest Man, Sir, Is Able To Speak For Himself, When A Knave Is Not.

Come, Seeling Night, Scarf Up The Tender Eye Of Pitiful Day, And With Thy Bloody And Invisible Hand Cancel And Tear To Pieces That Great Bond Which Keeps Me Pale. Light Thickens, And The Crow Makes Wing To Th' Rooky Wood. Good Things Of Day Begin To Droop And Drowse, While Night's Black Agents To Their Prey Do Rouse.