Fair Is Foul, And Foul Is Fair,

What Is The City But The People?

Heaven Give You Many, Many Merry Days.

Poor And Content Is Rich, And Rich Enough.

Thy Best Of Rest Is Sleep, And That Thou Oft Provok'st; Yet Grossly Fear'st Thy Death, Which Is No More.

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.