Jealousy Is The Jaundice Of The Soul.

Roused By The Lash Of His Own Stubborn Tail Our Lion Now Will Foreign Foes Assail.

If You Are For A Merry Jaunt, I Will Try, For Once, Who Can Foot It Farthest.

Since Every Man Who Lives Is Born To Die, And None Can Boast Sincere Felicity, With Equal Mind, What Happens, Let Us Bear, Nor Joy Nor Grieve Too Much For Things Beyond Our Care. Like Pilgrims To The' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

Woman's Honor Is Nice As Ermine; It Will Not Bear A Soil.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.