Use Every Man After His Desert, And

Small Herbs Have Grace, Great Weeds Do Grow Apace.

I Have Lived Long Enough. My Way Of Life Is To Fall Into The Sere, The Yellow Leaf, And That Which Should Accompany Old Age, As Honor, Love, Obedience, Troops Of Friends I Must Not Look To Have.

By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

The Gloomy Shade Of Death.