When Most I Wink, Then Do My

But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No Blot? Thou Mayst Be False, And Yet I Know It Not.

This Fellow Is Wise Enough To Play The Fool; And To Do That Well Craves A Kind Of Wit: He Must Observe Their Mood On Whom He Jests, The Quality Of Persons, And The Time, And, Like The Haggard, Check At Every Feather That Comes Before His Eye. This Is A Practise As Full Of Labour As A Wise Man's Art For Folly That He Wisely Shows Is Fit; But Wise Men, Folly-fall'n, Quite Taint Their Wit.

For Now They Kill Me With A Living Death.

O All You Host Of Heaven! O Earth! What Else? And Shall I Couple Hell?

Thy Wit Is A Very Bitter Sweeting; It Is A Most Sharp Sauce.