The World Is Grown So Bad, That

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

The Time Of Life Is Short; To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long.

Nor Aught So Good But Strained From That Fair Use, Revolts From True Birth Stumbling On Abuse.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine.

Society Is No Comfort, To One Not Sociable.