The Play's The Thing.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

For The Success, Although Particular, Shall Give A Scantling Of Good Or Bad Unto The General; And In Such Indexes, Although Small Pricks To Their Subsequent Volumes, There Is Seen The Baby Figure Of The Giant Mass Of Things To Come At Large.

Love Comforteth Like Sunshine After Rain, But Lust's Effect Is Tempest After Sun; Love's Gentle Spring Doth Always Fresh Remain, Lust's Winter Comes Ere Summer Half Be Done; Love Surfeits Not, Lust Like A Glutton Dies; Love Is All Truth, Lust Full Of Forged Lies.

Double, Double, Toil And Trouble; Fire Burn, And Cauldron Bubble!

They Whose Guilt Within Their Bosom Lies, Imagine Every Eye Beholds Their Blame.