[the Play] Is Like To Be A

Love That Is Ignorant And Hatred Have Almost The Same Ends.

No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or Likeness So True As His Speech.

The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

Still To Be Neat, Still To Be Drest, As You Were Going To A Feast, Still To Be Powder'd, All Perfum'd. Lady, It Is To Be Presumed, Though Art's Hid Causes Are Not Found, All Is Not Sweet, All Is Not Sound.

O! How Vain And Vile A Passion Is This Fear! What Base Uncomely Things It Makes Men Do.