A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling,

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.

A College Of Wit-crackers Cannot Flout Me Out Of My Humor. Dost Thou Think I Care For A Satire Or An Epigram?

Shall I Never See A Bachelor Of Three Score Again?

Our Enemies Are Our Outward Consciences.

Two May Keep Counsel Putting One Away!