You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

Ay, In The Catalogue Ye Go For Men; As Hounds, And Greyhounds, Mongrels, Spaniels, Curs, Shoughs, Water-rugs, And Demi-wolves, Are 'clept All By The Name Of Dogs: The Valued File Distinguishes The Swift, The Slow, The Subtle, The Housekeeper, The Hunter, Every One According To The Gift Which Bounteous Nature Hath In Him Closed.

I Count Myself In Nothing Else So Happy As In A Soul Remembering My Good Friends

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

All The World's A Stage.

O, Reason Not The Need!