Making Night Hideous.

Give Me My Robe, Put On My Crown; I Have Immortal Longings In Me.

Tongues I'll Hang On Every Tree That Shall Civil Sayings Show. . . .

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding.

Love Is Merely A Madness; And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do; And The Reason Why They Are Not So Punish'd And Cured Is That The Lunacy Is So Ordinary That The Whippers Are In Love Too.

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