Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!

Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.

Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't!

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.