Strikes Deeper, Grows With More Pernicious Root.

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

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

My Heart Is Turned To Stone; I Strike It, And It Hurts My Hand.

Here Comes A Pair Of Very Strange Beasts, Which In All Tongues Are Called Fools.

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.