Opinion Crowns With An Imperial Voice.

I Am A Great Eater Of Beef, And I Believe That Does Harm To My Wit.

Fairest Cordelia, That Art Most Rich, Being Poor; Most Choice, Forsaken; And Most Loved, Despised! Thee And Thy Virtues Here I Seize Upon: Be It Lawful I Take Up What's Cast Away. Gods, Gods! 'tis Strange That From Their Cold'st Neglect My Love Should Kindle To Inflamed Respect. Thy Dowerless Daughter, King, Thrown To My Chance, Is Queen Of Us, Of Ours, And Our Fair France: Not All The Dukes Of Waterish Burgundy Can Buy This Unprized Precious Maid Of Me. Bid Them Farewell, Cordelia, Though Unkind: Thou Losest Here, A Better Where To Find.

O Fortune, Fortune! All Men Call Thee Fickle.

Have You Not Love Enough To Bear With Me, When That Rash Humor Which My Mother Gave Me Makes Me Forgetful.

Scratching Could Not Make It Worse, An't Were Such A Face As Yours Were.