All The World's A Stage.

I'll Privily Away; I Love The People, But Do Not Like To Stage Me To Their Eyes; Though It Do Well, I Do Not Relish Well Their Loud Applause And Aves Vehement, Nor Do I Think The Man Of Safe Discretion That Does Not Affect It.

Thou Art All The Comfort, The Gods Will Diet Me With.

My Age Is As A Lusty Winter, Frosty But Kindly.

Can One Desire Too Much Of A Good Thing?

'tis Better To Be Vile Than Vile Esteemed