O, While You Live, Tell Truth, And

There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die, No Soul Will Pity Me.

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.

He Knows What It's Like To Strut And Fret His Hour Upon The Stage And Then Be Heard No More.

Grace And Remembrance Be To You Both.

Tis An Ill Cook That Cannot Lick His Own Fingers.