I Cannot Tell What The Dickens His

For My Part, I May Speak It To My Shame, I Have A Truant Been To Chivalry; And So I Hear He Doth Account Me Too.

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

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.

Hell Is Empty And All The Devils Are Here.

If It Be True That Good Wine Needs No Bush, 'tis True That A Good Play Needs No Epilogue.