Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief.

So distribution should undo excess, and each man have enough.

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.

By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.

How now, wit! Whither wander you?

And nothing is, but what is not.