There Was A Star Danced, And Under

Let Those That Play Your Clowns Speak No More Than Is Set Down For Them.

He Was Too Good To Be Where Ill Men Were, And Was The Best Of All Amongst The Rar'st Of Good Ones- Sitting Sadly Hearing Us Praise Our Loves Of Italy For Beauty That Made Barren The Swell'd Boast Of Him That Best Could Speak; For Feature, Laming The Shrine Of Venus Or Straight-pight Minerva, Postures Beyond Brief Nature; For Condition, A Shop Of All The Qualities That Man Loves Woman For; Besides That Hook Of Wiving, Fairness Which Strikes The Eye- Cymbeline.

I Hold It Cowardice To Rest Mistrustful Where A Noble Heart Hath Pawned An Open Hand In Sign Of Love.

Thou Know'st 'tis Common; All That Lives Must Die, Passing Through Nature To Eternity.

A Fusty Nut With No Kernel.