Thou Hast The Most Unsavoury Similes.

Society Is No Comfort, To One Not Sociable.

Quince Francis Flute, The Bellows-mender. Flute Here, Peter Quince. Quince Flute, You Must Take Thisby On You. Flute What Is Thisby? A Wandering Knight? Quince It Is The Lady That Pyramus Must Love. Flute Nay, Faith, Let Me Not Play A Woman; I Have A Beard Coming.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.

Lives Like A Drunken Sailor On A Mast, Ready With Every Nod To Tumble Down Into The Fatal Bowels Of The Deep.

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.