See What A Ready Tongue Suspicion Hath!

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

For In The Fatness Of These Pursy Times Virtue Itself Of Vice Must Pardon Beg.

This Most Excellent Canopy, The Air, Look You, This Brave O-erhanging Firmament, This Majestical Roof Fretted With Golden Fire.

He Is White-livered And Red-faced.

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men.