The Pleasing Punishment That Women Bear.

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

Still It Cried ‘sleep No More!’ To All The House: ‘glamis Hath Murder’d Sleep, And Therefore Cawdor Shall Sleep No More,—macbeth Shall Sleep No More!

Tush! Fear Not, My Lord, We Will Not Stand To Prate; Talkers Are No Good Doers: Be Assured We Come To Use Our Hands And Not Our Tongues.

O, Men's Vows Are Women's Traitors! All Good Seeming, By Thy Revolt, O Husband, Shall Be Thought Put On For Villainy, Not Born Where't Grows, But Worn A Bait For Ladies.

Why, What Is Pomp, Rule, Reign, But Earth And Dust? And, Live We How We Can, Yet Die We Must.