How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She

Men So Noble, However Faulty, Yet Should Find Respect For What They Have Been: 'tis A Cruelty To Load A Falling Man.

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.

What Is A Man, If His Chief Good And Market Of His Time Be But To Sleep And Feed? A Beast, No More. Sure He That Made Us With Such Large Discourse, Looking Before And After, Gave Us Not That Capability And God-like Reason To Fust In Us Unused.

Think You A Little Din Can Daunt Mine Ears? Have I Not In My Time Heard Lions Roar? Have I Not Heard The Sea, Puffed Up With Winds, Rage Like An Angry Boar Chafed With Sweat? Have I Not Heard Great Ordinance In The Field, And Heaven's Artillery Thunder In The Skies? Have I Not In A Pitched Battle Heard Loud 'larums, Neighing Steeds, And Trumpets' Clang? And Do You Tell Me Of A Woman's Tongue, That Gives Not Half So Great A Blow To Hear As Will A Chestnut In A Farmer's Fire? Tush! Tush! Fear Boys With Bugs. Grumio: For He Fears None.

I Doubt Not Then But Innocence Shall Makefalse Accusation Blush, And Tyrannytremble At Patience.