Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

How Many Ages Hence Shall This Our Lofty Scene Be Acted Over In States Unborn And Accents Yet Unknown!

He Kills Her In Her Own Humor.

'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

An Two Men Ride Of A Horse, One Must Ride Behind.

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.