Do You Set Down Your Name In

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strained

An Overflow Of Good Converts To Bad.

A Goodly Portly Man, I' Faith, And A Corpulent; Of A Cheerful Look, A Pleasing Eye, And A Most Noble Carriage; And, As I Think, His Age Some Fifty, Or, By'r Lady, Inclining To Threescore; And Now I Remember Me, His Name Is Falstaff.