Tell Troth And Shame The Devil.

Soul Of The Age! The Applause, Delight, The Wonder Of Our Stage! My Shakespeare , Rise; I Will Not Lodge Thee By Chaucer Or Spenser , Or Bid Beaumont Lie A Little Further, To Make Thee A Room; Thou Art A Monument, Without A Tomb, And Art Alive Still, While Thy Book Doth Live, And We Have Wits To Read , And Praise To Give .

Vice Is Like A Fury To The Vicious Mind, And Turns Delight Itself To Punishment.

In The Hope To Meet Shortly Again, And Make Our Absence Sweet.

What Excellent Fools Religion Makes Of Men.

No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or Likeness So True As His Speech.