A Very Scurvy Fellow.

Where Hateful Death Put On His Ugliest Mask.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

There's Never A Villain Dwelling In All Denmark But He's An Arrant Knave.

It Provokes The Desire But It Takes Away The Performance. Therefore Much Drink May Be Said To Be An Equivocator With Lechery: It Makes Him And It Mars Him; It Sets Him On And It Takes Him Off.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.