How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?

I Wasted Time, And Now Doth Time Waste Me.

We Must Be Brief When Traitors Brave The Field.

The Love That Follows Us Sometime Is Our Trouble, Which Still We Thank As Love.

All The World's A Stage, And All The Men And Women Merely Players: They Have Their Exits And Their Entrances; And One Man In His Time Plays Many Parts, His Acts Being Seven Ages.

Preposterous Ass, That Never Read So Far To Know The Cause Why Music Was Ordain'd! Was It Not To Refresh The Mind Of Man, After His Studies Or His Usual Pain?