God Has Given You One Face, And

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

The Art Of Our Necessities Is Strange That Can Make Vile Things Precious.

Conceal Me What I Am, And Be My Aid For Such Disguise As Haply Shall Become The Form Of My Intent.

The Latter End Of A Fray, And The Beginning Of A Feast, Fits A Dull Fighter, And A Keen Guest.

All Furnished, All In Arms; All Plum'd Like Estridges That With The Wind Bated Like Eagles Having Lately Bathed; Glittering In Golden Coats Like Images; As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May And Gorgeous As The Sun At Midsummer; Wanton As Youthful Goats, Wild As Young Bulls.