There Is A World Elsewhere.

In Sweet Music Is Such Art: Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

O Me, You Juggler, You Canker-blossom, You Thief Of Love!

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.

He Was A Man, Take Him For All In All, I Shall Not Look Upon His Like Again.

But, Indeed, Words Are Very Rascals, Since Bonds [vows] Disgraced Them." Viola: "thy Reason, Man?" Feste: "troth [truthfully], Sir, I Can Yield You None Without Words, And Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loathe To Prove Reason With Them.