If Fortune Torments Me, Hope Contents Me.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

The Play's The Thing.

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

This Act Is An Ancient Tale New Told; And, In The Last Repeating, Troublesome, Being Urged At A Time Unseasonable.