Misery Acquaints A Man With Strange Bedfellows.

Divers Philosophers Hold That The Lips Is Parcel Of The Mouth.

He Does It With Better Grace, But I Do It More Natural.

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

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

That Is Honor's Scorn Which Challenges Itself As Honor's Born And Is Not Like The Sire. Honors Thrive When Rather From Our Acts We Them Derive Than Our Foregoers.