The Play's The Thing.

Good With Out Evil Is Like Light With Out Darkness Which In Turn Is Like Righteousness Whith Out Hope.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!

How Poor Are They That Have Have Not Patients.

O, Full Of Scorpions Is My Mind!

I See A Woman May Be Made A Fool, If She Had Not A Spirit To Resist.