Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity

Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run Fast.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry. But Were We Burd'ned With Like Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain: So Thou, That Hast No Unkind Mate To Grieve Thee, With Urging Helpless Patience Wouldst Relieve Me; But If Thou Live To See Like Right Bereft, This Fool-begged Patience In Thee Will Be Left.

It Is That Fery Person For All The Orld, As Just As You Will Desire; And Seven Hundred Pounds Of Moneys, And Gold, And Silver, Is Her Grandsire Upon His Death's-bed-got Deliver To A Joyful Resurrections!

Like One Who Having Into Truth, By Telling Of It, Made Such A Sinner Of His Memory, To Credit His Own Lie.

Don Pedro Come, Lady, Come; You Have Lost The Heart Of Signior Benedick. Beatrice Indeed, My Lord, He Lent It Me Awhile; And I Gave Him Use For It, A Double Heart For His Single One: Marry, Once Before He Won It Of Me With False Dice, Therefore Your Grace May Well Say I Have Lost It. Don Pedro You Have Put Him Down, Lady, You Have Put Him Down. Beatrice So I Would Not He Should Do Me, My Lord, Lest I Should Prove The Mother Of Fools.