The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

Sir Andrew Ague-cheek: I'll Stay A Month Longer. I Am A Fellow O' The Strangest Mind I' The World; I Delight In Masques And Revels Sometimes Altogether (he's An Oddity In That He Enjoys Having Fun)

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph; I, That Am Curtailed Of This Fair Proportion, Cheated Of Feature By Dissembling Nature, Deformed, Unfinished, Sent Before My Time Into This Breathing World, Scarce Half Made Up, And That So Lamely And Unfashionable That Dogs Bark At Me As I Halt By Them,-- Why, I, In This Weak Piping Time Of Peace, Have No Delight To Pass Away The Time, Unless To Spy My Shadow In The Sun.

And By That Destiny To Perform An Act Whereof What's Past Is Prologue, What To Come In Yours And My Discharge.

A Scar Nobly Got Is A Good Livery Of Honor.