Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.

Set Honour In One Eye And Death I' The Other, And I Will Look On Both Indifferently.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!

Let Witchcraft Join With Beauty, Lust With Both!

And So, From Hour To Hour, We Ripe And Ripe. And Then, From Hour To Hour, We Rot And Rot; And Thereby Hangs A Tale.