Of All Wild Beasts Preserve Me From

[the Play] Is Like To Be A Very Conceited Scurvy One, In Plain English.

Art Hath An Enemy Call'd Ignorance .

True Melancholy Breeds Your Perfect Fine Wit.

No Man So Wise That He May Not Easily Err If He Takes No Other Counsel Than His Own. He That Is Taught Only By Himself Has A Fool For A Master.

I Remember, The Players Have Often Mentioned It As An Honour To Shakespeare, That In His Writing (whatsoever He Penned) He Never Plotted Out A Line. My Answer Hath Been, Would He Had Blotted A Thousand.