Do Not Speak Like A Death's-head, Do

I Had Rather Be A Kitten, And Cry Mew, Than One Of These Same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I Had Rather Heare A Brazen Candlestick Turn'd, Or A Dry Wheele Grate On The Axle-tree, And That Would Set My Teeth Nothing An Edge, Nothing So Much, As Mincing Poetrie.

Then With The Losers Let It Sympathize, For Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those That Win.

Wisdom And Fortune Combating Together, If That The Former Dare But What It Can, No Chance May Shake It.

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say! One: Two: Why, Then 'tis Time To Do't. Hell Is Murky!

They Told Me I Was Everything. 'tis A Lie, I Am Not Ague-proof.