For Sorrow Ends Not, When It Seemeth

There Is No More Mercy In Him Than There Is Milk In A Male Tiger.

Beauty's A Doubtful Good, A Glass, A Flower, Lost, Faded, Broken, Dead Within An Hour; And Beauty, Blemish'd Once, For Ever's Lost, In Spite Of Physic, Painting, Pain, And Cost.

This Thing Of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine.

One Man In His Time Plays Many Parts.

Well, If Fortune Be A Woman, She's A Good Wench For This Gear.