So Well Thy Words Become Thee As

Wherefore Was I To This Keen Mockery Born? When At Your Hands Did I Deserve This Scorn? Is't Not Enough, Is't Not Enough, Young Man, That I Did Never, No, Nor Never Can, Deserve A Sweet Look From Demetrius' Eye, But You Must Flout My Insufficiency?

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

Ah Me, How Weak A Thing The Heart Of Woman Is!

'twas Merry When You Wagered On Your Angling, When Your Diver Did Hang A Salt Fish On His Hook, Which He With Fervency Drew Up.

Time Is The Old Justice That Examines All Such Offenders, And Let Time Try.