Oh, I Am Fortune's Fool!

Men At Some Time Are Masters Of Their Fates. The Fault, Dear Brutus, Is Not In Our Stars, But In Ourselves, That We Are Underlings.

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

Two Women Placed Together Makes Cold Weather.

When Death Doth Close His Tender Dying Eyes.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!