I Would Not Wish Any Companion In

More Of Your Conversation Would Infect My Brain.

I Pray Thee Cease Thy Counsel, Which Falls Into Mine Ears As Profitless As Water In A Sieve.

O, That This Too Too Solid Flesh Would Melt Thaw And Resolve Itself Into A Dew! Or That The Everlasting Had Not Fix'd His Canon 'gainst Self-slaughter! O God! God! How Weary, Stale, Flat And Unprofitable, (135) Seem To Me All The Uses Of This World! Fie On't! Ah Fie! 'tis An Unweeded Garden, That Grows To Seed; Things Rank And Gross In Nature Possess It Merely. That It Should Come To This! But Two Months Dead: Nay, Not So Much, Not Two: (140) So Excellent A King; That Was, To This.

To Be Direct And Honest Is Not Safe.

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.