Though I Be But Prince Of Wales,

And Will He Not Come Again? And Will He Not Come Again? No, No, He Is Dead. Go To Thy Deathbed. He Never Will Come Again.

Beware Of Entrance To A Quarrel.

Praise Us As We Are Tasted, Allow Us As We Prove.

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.

Things In Motion Sooner Catch The Eye Than What Not Stirs.