For In That Sleep Of Death What

Love Is Blind And Lovers Cannot See The Pretty Follies That Themselves Commit

But, Indeed, Words Are Very Rascals, Since Bonds [vows] Disgraced Them." Viola: "thy Reason, Man?" Feste: "troth [truthfully], Sir, I Can Yield You None Without Words, And Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loathe To Prove Reason With Them.

Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry, But Heaviness Foreruns The Good Event.

O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!

The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.