Till Our King Henry Had Shook Hands

I Must To The Barber's, Monsieur, For Methinks I Am Marvellous Hairy About The Face.

How Sometimes Nature Will Betray Its Folly, Its Tenderness, And Make Itself A Pastime To Harder Bosoms!

This Sleep Is Sound Indeed; This Is A Sleep That From This Golden Rigol Hath Divorc'd So Many English Kings.

That Which I Would Discover The Law Of Friendship Bids Me To Conceal.

Do You Set Down Your Name In The Scroll Of Youth, That Are Written Down Old With All The Characters Of Age?