He That Dies Pays All Debts.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!

What A Fool Honesty Is.

So We'll Live, And Pray, And Sing, And Tell Old Tales, And Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

False Face Must Hide What The False Heart Doth Know.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself