Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman!

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

Who Riseth From A Feast With That Keen Appetite That He Sits Down?

Go, Write It In A Martial Hand; Be Curst And Brief; It Is No Matter How Witty, So It Be Eloquent And Fun Of Invention: Taunt Him With The Licence Of Ink: If Thou Thou'st Him Some Thrice, It Shall Not Be Amiss; And As Many Lies As Will Lie In Thy Shee.

How Ill White Hairs Become A Fool And Jester!

For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.