Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale

But Whate'er I Am, Nor I Nor Any Man That But Man Is, With Nothing Shall Be Pleased 'til He Be Eased With Being Nothing.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

Rumour Doth Double, Like The Voice And Echo, The Numbers Of The Feared.

I Wonder That You Will Still Be Talking. Nobody Marks You.