You Speak An Infinite Deal Of Nothing.

When Our Actions Do Not, Our Fears Make Us Traitors.

My Father Compounded With My Mother Under The Dragon's Tail, And My Nativity Was Under Ursa Major, So That It Follows, I Am Roughand Lecherous. Tut, I Should Have Been That I Am, Had The Maidenliest Star In The Firmament Twinkled On My Bastardizing.

We Do Pray For Mercy, And That Same Prayer Doth Teach Us All To Render The Deeds Of Mercy.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

As I Hope For Quiet Days, Fair Issue, And Long Life, With Such Love As 'tis Now, The Murkiest Den, The Most Opportune Place, The Strong'st Suggestion Our Worser Genius Can, Shall Never Melt Mine Honour Into Lust, To Take Away The Edge Of That Day's Celebration, When I Shall Think Or Phoebus' Steeds Are Founder'd Or Night Kept Chain'd Below.