You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

I Had Rather Have A Fool To Make Me Merry Than Experience To Make Me Sad And To Travel For It Too!

The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

If It Be True That Good Wine Needs No Bush, 'tis True That A Good Play Needs No Epilogue.

In Delay There Lies No Plenty.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven