We Cannot Fight For Love, As Men

A Dream Itself Is But A Shadow.

All The World's A Stage, And All The Men And Women Mearly Players.

The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven.

A Goodly Portly Man, I' Faith, And A Corpulent; Of A Cheerful Look, A Pleasing Eye, And A Most Noble Carriage; And, As I Think, His Age Some Fifty, Or, By'r Lady, Inclining To Threescore; And Now I Remember Me, His Name Is Falstaff.

As You From Crimes Would Pardon'd Be, Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free.