With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

I Have Full Cause Of Weeping, But This Heart Shall Break Into A Hundred Thousand Flaws Or Ere I'll Weep.

No Man's Pie Is Freed From His Ambitious Finger.

I And My Bosom Must Debate Awhile, And Then I Would No Other Company.

A Very Scurvy Fellow.