The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.

O, Let Me Kiss That Hand! King Lear: Let Me Wipe It First; It Smells Of Mortality.

I Was A Coward On Instinct.

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

Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strained