We Are Ready To Try Our Fortunes

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

Swear Me, Kate, Like A Lady As Thou Art, A Good Mouth-filling Oath.

The Barge She Sat In, Like A Burnish'd Throne, Burnt On The Water.

The Poorest Service Is Repaid With Thanks.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.