All The World's A Stage.

Now Stand You On The Top Of Happy Hours, And Many Maiden Gardens Yet Unset, With Virtuous Wish Would Bear You Living Flowers, Much Liker Than Your Painted Counterfeit: So Should The Lines Of Life That Life Repair Which This, Time's Pencil, Or My Pupil Pen Neither In Inward Worth Nor Outward Fair Can Make You Live Your Self In Eyes Of Men.

Glory Grows Guilty Of Detested Crimes.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

Such Antics Do Not Amount To A Man.

Our Doubts Are Traitors And Make Us Lose The Good We Oft Might Win By Fearing To Attempt.