Love Thrives Not In The Heart That

Venus Smiles Not In A House Of Tears.

All The World's A Stage.

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

Madam, You Have Bereft Me Of All Words, Only My Blood Speaks To You In My Veins.

But It Is A Melancholy Of Mine Own, Compounded Of Many Simples, Extracted From Many Objects, And Indeed The Sundry Contemplation Of My Travels, Which, By Often Rumination, Wraps Me In The Most Humorous Sadness.