Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

Tis Beauty That Doth Oft Make Women Proud; But, God He Knows, Thy Share Thereof Is Small.

Women Are As Roses, Whose Fair Flower, Being Once Displayed, Doth Fall That Very Hour.

Every Man Has Business And Desire, Such As It Is.

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

It Is A Tale Told By An Idiot, Full Of Sound And Fury; Signifying Nothing.