By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something

Lend Less Than You Owe.

Hang Those That Talk Of Fear.

Her Blood Is Settled, And Her Joints Are Stiff; Life And These Lips Have Long Been Separated: Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost Upon The Sweetest Flower Of All The Field.

Lord, Lord, How This World Is Given To Lying!

So Weary With Disasters, Tugg'd With Fortune, That I Would Set My Life On Any Chance, To Mend, Or Be Rid On't.