That Old Bald Cheater, Time.

Vice Is Like A Fury To The Vicious Mind, And Turns Delight Itself To Punishment.

It Strikes! One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. Enough, Enough, Dear Watch, Thy Pulse Hath Beat Enough. Now Sleep And Rest; Would Thou Could'st Make The Time To Do So Too; I'll Wind Thee Up No More.

Soul Of The Age! The Applause! Delight! The Wonder Of Our Stage!

It Is An Art To Have So Much Judgment As To Apparel A Lie Well, To Give It A Good Dressing.

Indeed There's A Woundy Luck In Names.