Sorrow Breaks Seasons And Reposing Hours, Makes

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

Let Those That Play Your Clowns Speak No More Than Is Set Down For Them.

As Full Of Spirit As The Month Of May, And As Gorgeous As The Sun In Midsummer.

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

And Be These Juggling Friends No More Believ'd, That Palter With Us In A Double Sense; That Keep The Word Of Promise To Our Ear And Break It To Our Hope.