How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

Death Rock Me Asleep.

Assume A Virtue, If You Have It Not. That Monster, Custom, Who All Sense Doth Eat; Of Habits Devil, Is Angel Yet In This.

Bell, Book And Candle Shall Not Drive Me Back, When Gold And Silver Becks Me To Come On.

For You And I Are Past Our Dancing Days.

Gloucester: I Do Not Know That Englishman Alive With Whom My Soul Is Any Jot At Odds, More Than The Infant That Is Born To-night: I Thank My God For My Humility.