Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick

I'll Privily Away; I Love The People, But Do Not Like To Stage Me To Their Eyes; Though It Do Well, I Do Not Relish Well Their Loud Applause And Aves Vehement, Nor Do I Think The Man Of Safe Discretion That Does Not Affect It.

If We Are Mark'd To Die, We Are Enow To Do Our Country Loss; And If To Live, The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of Honour. God's Will! I Pray Thee; Wish Not One Man More.

Ingratitude Is Monstrous.

Vice Repeated Is Like The Wandering Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eyes To Spread Itself.

Then Come Kiss Me, Sweet And Twenty.