The Play's The Thing.

I Am Not Merry, But I Do Beguile The Thing I Am By Seeming Otherwise.

A Cup Of Hot Wine With Not A Drop Of Allaying Tiber In 't.

Have I Caught Thee, My Heavenly Jewel? Why, Now Let Me Die, For I Have Lived Long Enough.

Were't Not For Laughing, I Should Pity Him.

I Do Oppose My Patience To His Fury, And Am Arm'd To Suffer, With A Quietness Of Spirit, The Very Tyranny And Rage Of His.