The Play's The Thing.

Their Lips Were Four Red Roses On A Stalk.

Thou Art Sad; Get Thee A Wife, Get Thee A Wife!

Like A Red Morn That Ever Yet Betokened, Wreck To The Seaman, Tempest To The Field, Sorrow To The Shepherds, Woe Unto The Birds, Gusts And Foul Flaws To Herdmen And To Herds.

Alas, Sir, How Fell You Besides Your Five Wits?" Malvolio: "fool, There Was Never A Man So Notoriously Abused. I Am As Well In My Wits, Fool, As Thou Art." Feste: "but As Well? Then You Are Mad Indeed, If You Be No Better In You Wits Than A Fool.

Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.