France Is A Dog-hole, And It No

I Durst Not Laugh For Fear Of Opening My Lips And Receiving The Bad Air.

Love Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom.

Alack, The Night Comes On, And The Bleak Winds Do Sorely Ruffle; For Many Miles About There's Scarce A Bush.

Sweetest Nut Hath Sourest Rind.

Life's But A Walking Shadow, A Poor Player, That Struts And Frets His Hour Upon The Stage, And Then Is Heard No More; It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing.