I Am Falser Than Vows Made In

O, Let Me Kiss That Hand! King Lear: Let Me Wipe It First; It Smells Of Mortality.

Besides, They Are Our Outward Consciences, And Preachers To Us All, Admonishing That We Should Drew Us Fairly For Our End.

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

Do Not Speak Like A Death's-head, Do Not Bid Me Remember Mine End.

Virtuous And Fair, Royal And Gracious.