Let Those That Play Your Clowns Speak

Nay, Had I Pow'r, I Should Pour The Sweet Milk Of Concord Into Hell, Uproar The Universal Peace, Confound All Unity On Earth.

You Must Confine Yourself Within The Modest Limits Of Order.

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Nay, Do Not Think I Flatter. For What Advancement May I Hope From Thee, That No Revenue Hast But Thy Good Spirits To Feed And Clothe Thee? Why Should The Poor Be Flattered?

I'll Privily Away; I Love The People, But Do Not Like To Stage Me To Their Eyes; Though It Do Well, I Do Not Relish Well Their Loud Applause And Aves Vehement, Nor Do I Think The Man Of Safe Discretion That Does Not Affect It.