Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!

The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Can Afford Is A Spotless Reputation.

I Wonder That You Will Still Be Talking. Nobody Marks You.

I Had Rather Be A Dog, And Bay The Moon, Than Such A Roman.

Hot Lavender, Mints, Savory, Marjoram; The Marigold, That Goes To Bed Wi' The Sun, And With Him Rise Weeping.

Give Me A Bowl Of Wine, In This I Bury All Unkindness.